But not alone by Teio’s shore,
Tho’ heap’d with slain, and red with gore,
The tide of grief shall flow:--
’Tis not amidst the din of fight,
Nor on the warrior’s crested height,
Death strikes his direst blow:--
Far from the fray, unseen and late,
Descend the bitterest shafts of fate,
Where tender love, and pious care
The lingering hours of absence wear
In solitude and gloom;
And, mingling many a prayer and tear,
Of sire, or child, or husband dear
Anticipate the doom:
Their hopes no trophied prospects cheer,
For them no laurels bloom;
But trembling hope, and feverish fear,
Forebodings wild, and visions drear
Their anguish’d hearts consume.