XXIII |
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XXIII
As the wolves, that headlong go
On the stately buffalo,
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar,
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore,
He tramples on earth, or tosses on high
The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die;
Thus against the wall they went,
Thus the first were backward bent;
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass,
Strew`d the earth like broken glass,
Shiver`d by the shot, that tore
The ground whereon they moved no more:
Even as they fell, in files they lay,
Like the mower`s grass at the close of day,
When is work is done on the levell`d plain;
Such was the fall of the foremost slain.
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