Trooping on, in sad procession, melancholy funeral trains!
Hope stands smiling on the margin, but beyond are gloomy fears—
One by one, dark Disappointment wastes the castles Fancy rears—
All the air is filled with sighing—all the way with graves and tears!
Wouldst thou seek a wreath of glory on the ensanguined battle-field?
Know that to a single victor, thousands in subjection yield;
Thousands who with pulses beating high as his, the strife essayed—
Thousands who with arms as valiant, wielded each his shining blade—
Thousands who in heaps around him, vanquished, in the dust are laid!
Vanquished! while above the tumult, Victory’s trump, with swelling surge,