原文 (英語)

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse:--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine: Yet one would I select from that proud throng. ----to thee, to