A wingèd Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought
Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bold,
Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold
The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought,
Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot.
She vanished--leaving prospect blank and cold
Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled
In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot,
And monuments that soon must disappear:
Yet a dread local recompense we found;
While glory seemed betrayal, while patriot zeal
Sank in our hearts, we felt as Men should feel
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near,
And horror breathing from the silent ground!