Death for death! The storm begins; Rush the drums in a torrent of dins; Crash the muskets, gash the swords; Shoes grow red in a thousand fords; Now for the flint, and the cartridge bite; Darkly gathers the breath of the fight, Salt to the palate and stinging to sight; Muskets are pointed they scarce know where, No matter: Murder is cluttering there. Reel the hollows: close up! close up! Death feeds thick, and his food is his cup. Down go bodies, snap burst eyes; Trod on the ground are tender cries; Brains are dash'd against plashing ears; Hah! no time has battle for tears; Cursing helps better--cursing, that goes Slipping through friends' blood, athirst for foes'. What have soldiers with tears to do?-- We, who this mad-house must now go through, This twenty-fold Bedlam, let loose with knives-- To murder, and stab, and grow liquid with lives-- Gasping, staring, treading red mud, Till the drunkenness' self makes us steady of blood? [Illustration: DOWN GO BODIES--SNAP BURST EYES-- TROD ON THE GROUND ARE TENDER CRIES. _Canto_ II. _p. 8._] [Oh! shrink not thou, reader! Thy part's in it too; Has not thy praise made the thing they go through Shocking to read of, but noble to do?] No time to be "breather of thoughtful breath" Has the giver and taker of dreadful death. See where comes the horse-tempest again, Visible earthquake, bloody of mane! Part are upon us, with edges of pain; Part burst, riderless, over the plain, Crashing their spurs, and twice slaying the slain. See, by the living God! see those foot Charging down hill--hot, hurried, and mute! They loll their tongues out! Ah-hah! pell-mell! Horses roll in a human hell; Horse and man they climb one another-- Which is the beast, and which is the brother? Mangling, stifling, stopping shrieks With the tread of torn-out cheeks, Drinking each other's bloody breath-- Here's the fleshliest feast of Death. An odour, as of a slaughter-house, The distant raven's dark eye bows. Victory! victory! Man flies man; Cannibal patience hath done what it can-- Carv'd, and been carv'd, drunk the drinkers down, And now there is one that hath won the crown: One pale visage stands lord of the board-- Joy to the trumpets of Captain Sword!