The Rout begins, the  Squadrons run,
And rush in Crouds to meet the Fate they shun,
Thousands of fiery Steeds with Wounds transfix'd
Floating in Gore, with their drown'd Masters mixt,
Midst Heaps of broken Spears and Standards lye,
And in the  bloody Whirl-pools die.
Troops of bold Youths, born on the distant
Or sounding Borders of the Rapid
Or where the  her flow'ry Fields divides,
Or where the  through winding Vineyards glides;
In Heaps the Rolling Billows sweep away,
And into  Seas their bloated Corps convey.
From  Tow'rs the  with wild Affright,
Beholds the various Havock of the Fight;
His waving Banners, that so oft had stood
Planted in Fields of Death, and Streams of Blood,
So us'd the guarded Enemy to reach,
And rise Triumphant in the Fatal Breach,
Or pierce the broken Foe's remotest Lines,
The hardy Veteran with Tears resigns.