A thousand battles have assailed thy banks,

But these and half their fame have passed away,

And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks:

Their very graves are gone, and what are they?[303]

Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday,

And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream

Glassed, with its dancing light, the sunny ray;[in]

But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream

Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem.