XIV.

And winnowed must be Valour’s chosen grain, Where headlong to a shroud or victory borne, All brave alike the peril proud disdain, Yet culled the chosen for a Hope Forlorn! Mark the doomed band whose plumes seem loftier worn, Whose cheeks more red for courted wounds and death. Oh, many a mother’s breast shall soon be torn, And widowed spouse and sister gasp for breath, Nigh perishing for them whose requiem Glory saith!