LI.

A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, But these and half their fame have passed away, And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: Their very graves are gone, and what are they?[303] Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glassed, with its dancing light, the sunny ray;[in] But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.