Lord Byron - Ambition's Honoured Fools

From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage:

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies.
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
And met.....as if at home they could not die.....
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot - Ambition's honoured fools!
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts....to what?......a dream alone.
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Sure that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

Albuera, glorious field of grief!
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed,
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed.
Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng.
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.

Enough of Battle's minions! Let them play
Their game of lives, and barter beneath for fame:
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay,
Though thousands fall to deck some single name.
In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim
Who strike, blast hirelings! for their country's good,
And die, that living might have proved her shame,
Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud,
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.