William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

A WINGÉD Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought

Of rainbow colors,—one whose port was bold,

Whose overburdened hand could scarcely hold

The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought,

Hovered in air above the far-famed spot.

She vanished, leaving prospect blank and cold

Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled

In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot,

And monuments that soon must disappear;

Yet a dread local recompense we found;

While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot zeal

Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should feel

With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near;

And horror breathing from the silent ground.