The Lonely Bugle Grieves

THE trump hath blown,
And now upon that reeking hill
Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball ;
While with terrific signal shrill,
The vultures, from their bloody eyries flown,
Hang o'er them like a pall.
Now deeper roll the maddening drums,
And the mingling host like ocean heaves :
While from the midst a horrid wailing comes,
And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves !