Could the Muses, could the Graces[2] render
Smooth and bright a corse-o’ercovered way?
No! the accusing blood-gouts ever trickle
Down each red leaf of thy chaplet-crown!
Men fell here, as corn before the sickle,
Fell, to aggrandise thy false renown!
Here the veteran drooped beside the springald.
Here sank Strength and Symmetry in line—
Here crushed Hope and gasping Valour mingled,
And, Destroyer, the wild work was thine!