Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? 
   Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
   Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
   Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
   Tyrants and tyrants’ slaves?—­the fires of death,
   The bale-fires flash on high:  —­from rock to rock
   Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe: 
   Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.