Classic Poem

In deep astoundment on the plain he fell,
An heavy corse of lifeless clay he seem'd,
The joyful Pagans rais'd an horrent yell;
For him or dead, or captive, they esteem'd,
And conquest sure unto themselves they deem'd:
Him from the field the shouting victors bore,
Each Christian eye with pious sorrow stream'd;
Now battle they darraign (what can they more?),
And mountains heap of dead, and float the plain with gore.