XVII |
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XVII
Alp turn`d him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;
Be he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorch`d with death-thirst, and writing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate`er be the shape in which death may lour;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,
And Honour`s eye on daring deeds!
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O`er the weltering field of the tombless dead,
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there;
All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay.
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