Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
   Look o’er the ravage of the reeking plain: 
   Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
   Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
   Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
   Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird’s maw,
   Let their bleached bones, and blood’s unbleaching stain,
   Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!