SLOW struggling through the mist, that reek'd to heaven, Day dawn'd on Chalons' plain. Faintly it show'd Indistinct horror, and the ghastly form Of havoc lingering o'er its bloody work. Oh for the tongue that told how once the fiend Over immortal Athens from his wing Scatter'd disease and death! and, worse than death, The living curse of sunder'd charities, Whereby the fount of feeling and love's pulse Was stay'd within through dread, and, when most lack'd, The hospitable mansion sternly closed Against a parent's prayer, while corses foul, On the barr'd threshold's edge lay uninhumed, Exhaling plague! Oh, for the voice of him, Who drew the curtain of Apocalypse, To man declaring things for man too high, That I may speak the horrors, which broke slow Upon the sight at dawn! The ample field, Which, but short hours before was redolent With herbs and healthful odours, now uptorn By thousand hoofs, batter'd beneath the strength Of wheels and horse and man, a barren mass Of dark confusion seem'd; a trampled waste Without the blush of verdure, but with gore Distain'd, and steep'd in the cold dews of death. Thick strewn, and countless, as those winged tribes Which clamoring blacken all the grassy mead In sickly autumn, when the wither'd leaves Drift on the moaning gale, lay swords and pikes, Bucklers, and broken cuirasses, and casques, Shower'd by the pelting battle, when it rush'd With such hoarse noise as does the foaming surge Upon some rocky ledge, where AEolus Bids foul winds blow. But not of arms alone Rent fragments, and the broken orb of shields Embossed with gold, and gorgeous housings lay Cumbering that fearful waste. The mind shrinks back From the thick scatter'd carnage, the dread heaps That late were living energy and youth, Hope emulous, and lofty daring; strength, Which raised again from that corrupting sod, Thro' Ardenne's desert unto utmost Rhine Might have spread culture; thousands whose blithe voice Might yet have caroll'd to the breath of morn, Or joy'd the banquet, or with gifted hand Waked the ecstatic lyre, adorning still With rich diversity of active power Cottage or palace, the marmorean hall's Proud masonry, with Roman wealth o'erlaid, Or of Sarmatian hut the pastoral hearth, Abode of love, where fond remembrance now Looks sadly over hills and native dales For forms beloved in vain, which far away, Spurn'd by the grazed ox, shall heap the sod Of Chalons' glebe with undistinguish'd clay. Alas! -- If erst, on that unhallow'd eve When Ramah quaked with dread, the deep lament Of Rachel mourning for her babes appall'd Utmost Judea, and the holy banks Of Jordan unto Syria's frontier bounds, What ear, save Thine to whom all plaints arise, Might have abided the commingling wail Of matrons widow'd, and of maids that day Bereft of bridal hopes! like those lorn men Hard by the rock of Rimmon, when the Lord Smote Benjamin in all his fenced towns, Virgin, and wife, and infant with the sword Utterly destroying; and one oath restrain'd Each willing fair in Israel; yet brides For these still bloom'd in Gilead, and, what time The vintage glow'd, in Shiloh danced with song Ripe for connubial joys. But whence for these Shall ravaged Europe light the nuptial torch, Whose hopes have wither'd as the herbs, that bloom'd Odorous yestermorn on Chalons' plain! There foes on foes, friends lay with icy cheek Pressing their maim'd companions. On that field The eye might trace all war's vicissitudes Impress'd in fatal characters; the rush Headlong of flight, and thundering swift pursuit, Rescue and rally, and the struggling front Of hard contention. Strewn on every side Lay dead and dying, like the scatter'd seed Cast by the husbandman, with other thoughts Of unstain'd harvest; chariots overthrown, Shields cast behind, and wheels, and sever'd limbs, Rider and steed, and all the merciless shower Of arrows barb'd, strong shafts, and feather'd darts Wing'd with dismay. As when of Alpine snows The secret fount is open'd, and dread sprites, That dwell in those crystalline solitudes Have loosed the avalanche whose deep-thundering moan, Predicting ruin, on his couch death-doom'd The peasant hears; waters on waters rush Uptearing all impediment, woods, rocks, Ice rifted from the deep caerulean glens, Herds striving with the stream, and bleating flocks, The dwellers of the dale, with all of life That made the cottage blithesome; but ere long The floods o'erpass; the ravaged valley lies Tranquil and mute in ruin. So confused In awful stillness lay the battle's wreck. Here heaps of slain, as by an eddy cast, And hands, which, stiff, still clench'd the ruddy steel, Show'd rallied strength, and life sold dearly. There Equal and mingled havoc, where the tide Doubtful had paused whether to ebb or flow. Some prone were cast, some headlong, some supine; Others yet strove with death. The sallow cheek Of the slain Avar press'd the mangled limbs Of yellow-hair'd Sicambrian, whose blue eyes Still swum in agony; Gelonic steed Lay panting on the cicatrized form Of his grim lord, whose painted brow convulsed Seem'd a ferocious mockery. There, mix'd The Getic archer with the savage Hun, And Dacian lancers lay, and sturdy Goths Pierced by Sarmatian pike. There, once his pride The Sueve's long-flowing hair with gore besprent, And Alans stout, in Roman tunic clad. Some of apparel stripp'd by coward bands That vulture-like upon the skirts of war Ever hang merciless; their naked forms In death yet beauteous, though the eburnean limbs Blood had defiled. There some, whom thirst all night Had parch'd, too feeble from that fellowship To drag their fever'd heads, aroused at dawn From fearful dreaming to new hope and life, Die rifled by the hands whose help they crave. Others lie maim'd and torn, too strong to die, Imploring death. Oh, for some friendly aid To staunch their burning wounds and cool the lip Refresh'd with water from an unstain'd spring! But that foul troop of plunderers unrestrain'd Ply their abhorred trade, of groan or prayer Heedless, destroying whom war's wrath had spared. Some, phrensied, crawl unto the brook, which late Pellucid roll'd, now choked with slain, and swell'd With the heart's blood of thousands; gore they quaff For water, to allay the fatal thirst Which only death may quench. And this, great God! This is thy field of glory and of joy To man, the noblest of created forms, In thy pure image moulded! This the meed For which exalted natures toil and strive, Placed in such high preeminence, to be Thine own similitude, in glory next Thine incorporeal ministers! 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