George Gordon Byron

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 bleach’d bones, and blood’s unbleaching stain,
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw.