Classic Poem

Thus fell two Heroes; one the Pride of Thrace ,
And one the Leader of th' Epeian Race;
Death's sable Shade at once o'ercast their Eyes,
In Dust the Vanquish'd, and the Victor lies.
With copious Slaughter all the Fields are red,
And heap'd with growing Mountains of the Dead.
Had some brave Chief this martial Scene beheld,
By Pallas guarded thro' the dreadful Field,
Might Darts be bid to turn their Points away,
And Swords around him innocently play,
The War's whole Art with Wonder had he seen,
And counted Heroes where he counted Men.
So fought each Host, with Thirst of Glory fir'd,
And Crowds on Crowds triumphantly expir'd.