When late I sang, sad was my voice;
Sad were the shows around me, with deafening
  noises of hatred, and smoke of conflict;
In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood,
Or pass’d with slow step through the wounded and dying.
  
But now I sing not War,
Nor the measur’d march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps,
Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle.
  
No more the dead and wounded;
No more the sad, unnatural shows of War.
  
Ask’d room those flush’d immortal ranks?
   the first forth-stepping armies? 
Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks -- 
  the armies dread that follow’d.