Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foe1
Into his snares the famous legions drew,2
Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,3
A remnant scarcely reach’d her gates of woe ?4
Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow,5
That from the gushing wounds of thousands grew6
So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue7
Rush’d on the bosom of the lake below ?8
The mountains that gave back the battle-cry,9
Are voiceless now ; perchance yon hillocks green10
Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie.11
Heaven never gladden’d a more peaceful scene,12
Never left softer breeze a fairer sky,13
To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene !14