Past, present, and to come;—but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field
There the still varying pangs, which multiply
Until their very number makes men hard
By the infinitie of agony,
Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard—
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
Turn'd back within its socket,—these reward
Your rank and fil by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!