Classic Poem

The fatal Hour arrives so rashly sought,
With Horror, Sorrow, Blood and Carnage fraught;
And Death, from Chains and Stygian Darkness freed,
Enjoys the Light, and stalking o'er the Mead,
Expands his Jaws, and to his Arms invites
The Men of Worth, but vulgar Triumphs slights.
He marks the Chiefs who most deserve their Life,
The first in Arms, and foremost in the Strife;
Of these, scarce number'd with the mighty dead,
The Fiends rapacious snatch the vital Thread.
Mars occupies the Centre of the Field,
His Javelin dry; where'er he turns his Shield,
The fatal Touch erazes from the Mind
Wives, Children, Home, and leaves a Blank behind.
The Love of Life too flies among the rest,
The last that lingers in the human Breast.
Wrath sits suspended on their thirsty Spears,
And half unsheath'd each angry Blade appears.
Their Helmets tremble, formidably gay
With nodding Crests, and shed a gloomy Ray.
...
As they advance, the middle Space between
Grows less, till scarce an Interval is seen.
Now Front to Front oppos'd in just Array,
The closing Hosts with Groans commence the Fray:
Sword is repell'd by Sword, Shields clash on Shields,
Foot presses Foot, and Lance to Lances yields.
Their Helmets almost join, and mingling Rays
Alternately reflect each other's Blaze.
Beauteous as yet the Face of War appears [. . .]