XXXVI.

Ay, thousand corses, shroudless, graveless lie, And flout Heaven’s nostril with their carrion hue. The iron hail is scattered far and nigh, And earth unnumbered fragments sadly strew: Wrecked lares--torn apparel--arms that slew Till butchery broke them, headgear, shell, and shot, But ah! no living thing--yes, one I view-- A haggard maniac, crouched in loneliest spot. The sole survivor he where slaughtered thousands rot!