My sentence is for open war; of wiles
More unexpert I boast not: then let those
Contrive who need, or when they need, not now.
_Paradise Lost, Bk. II_. MILTON.
And Cæsar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
* * * * *
Cry "Havock!" and let slip the dogs of war.
_Julius Cæsar, Act iii. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.
In every heart
Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war;
Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze.
_The Task: Winter Morning Walk_. W. COWPER.
Long peace, I find,
But nurses dangerous humors up to strength,
License and wanton rage, which war alone
Can purge away.
_Mustapha_. D. MALLET.
The fire-eyed maid of smoky war
All hot and bleeding will we offer them.
_King Henry IV., Pt. I. Act iv. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.
Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
_Lochiel's Warning_. T. CAMPBELL.
He is come to ope
The purple testament of bleeding war;
But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons
Shall ill become the flower of England's face,
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
To scarlet indignation, and bedew
Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.
_King Richard II., Act iii. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.
War, my lord,
Is of eternal use to human kind;
For ever and anon when you have passed
A few dull years in peace and propagation,
The world is overstocked with fools, and wants
A pestilence at least, if not a hero.
_Edwin_. G. JEFFREYS.
O War! thou hast thy fierce delight,
Thy gleams of joy intensely bright!
Such gleams as from thy polished shield
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field!
_Lord of the Isles_. SIR W. SCOTT.
The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
My thrice-driven bed of down.
_Othello, Act i. Sc. 3_. SHAKESPEARE.
Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still, _They come_. Our castle's strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.
_Macbeth, Act v. Sc. 5_. SHAKESPEARE.
War, war is still the cry.--"war even to the knife!"
_Childe Harold, Canto I_. LORD BYRON.