O, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed
With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song, whose breath
May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
O, the sight entrancing.
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed
With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.
_O, the sight entrancing_. T. MOORE.
From the tents,
The armorers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
_King Henry V., Act iv. Chorus_. SHAKESPEARE.
Father, I call on thee!
Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil me,
Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts assail me:
Ruler of battles, I call on thee!
Father, oh lead thou me!
_Prayer During the Battle. German of_ K.T. KÖRNER.
_Trans. of_ J.S. BLACKIE.
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe;
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame!
_Lochiel's Warning_. T. CAMPBELL.
Not hate, but glory, made these chiefs contend;
And each brave foe was in his soul a friend.
_The Iliad, Bk. VII_. HOMER. _Trans. of_ POPE.
Ay me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron.
_Hudibras, Pt. I. Canto III_. S. BUTLER.
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage;--loud, and more loud
The discord grows: till pale Death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud.
* * * * *
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight,
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade,
And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore.
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean.
_War_. P.B. SHELLEY.
One to destroy is murder by the law;
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
To murder thousands takes a specious name,
War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
_Love of Fame, Satire VII_. DR. E. YOUNG.
Great princes have great playthings.
* * * * *
But war's a game which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at.
_The Task: Winter Morning Walk_. W. COWPER.
One murder made a villain,
Millions a hero. Princes were privileged
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.
_Death_ B. PORTEUS.
Mark where his carnage and his conquest cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it--peace!
_The Bride of Abydos, Canto II_. LORD BYRON.
Some undone widow sits upon mine arm,
And takes away the use of it; and my sword.
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.
_A New Way to Pay Old Debts, Act v. Sc. 1_. P. MASSINGER.
Ez fer war, I call it murder,--
There you hev it plain an' flat;
I don't want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that.
_The Biglow Papers, First Series, No. I_. J.R. LOWELL.