In pallid hillocks lie the slain The callous heaven under; Like twisted hieroglyphs of pain They fleck earth to oblivion's brink, As far as human mind may think, Accusing G.o.d with thunder Of dreadful silence. Nought it serves-- Fate ever calls the doomed reserves!

Still with Death's own monotony The innocents are falling, Like dead leaves in a forest dree; And still the conscript armies come.

No banners theirs, no beat of drum, No merry bugles calling!

Mad ally in the Slayers' train, Man slaps and sorrows for the slain!

THE END