Here it was
that Attila prepared to resist to the death his victors in the field;
and here he heaped up the treasures of his camp in one vast pile, which
was to be his funeral pyre should his camp be stormed. It was here that
the Gothic and Italian forces watched, but dared not assail their enemy
in his despair, after that great and terrible day of battle when
"The sound
Of conflict was o'erpast, the shout of all
Whom earth could send from her remotest bounds,
Heathen or faithful; from thy hundred mouths,
That feed the Caspian with Riphean snows.
Huge Volga! from famed Hypanis, which once
Cradled the Hun; from all the countless realms
Between Imaus and that utmost strand
Where columns of Herculean rock confront
The blown Altantic; Roman, Goth, and Hun,
And Scythian strength of chivalry, that tread
The cold Codanian shore or what far lands
Inhospitable drink Cimmerian floods,
Franks, Saxons, Suevic, and Sarmatian chiefs,
And who from green Armorica or Spain
Flocked to the work of death.
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