And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses, They parted for the present—these to await, According to the artillery’s hits or misses, What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, A mortgage on Humanity’s estate)— While their beloved friends began to arm, To burn a town which never did them harm. Suwarrow,—who but saw things in the gross, Being much too gross to see them in detail, Who calculated life as so much dross, And as the wind a widow’d nation’s wail, And cared as little for his army’s loss (So that their efforts should at length prevail) As wife and friends did for the boils of Job,— What was ’t to him to hear two women sob? Nothing.—The work of glory still went on In preparations for a cannonade As terrible as that of Ilion, If Homer had found mortars ready made; But now, instead of slaying Priam’s son, We only can but talk of escalade, Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets,— Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses’ gullets. O, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm All ears, though long; all ages, though so short, By merely wielding with poetic arm Arms to which men will never more resort, Unless gunpowder should be found to harm Much less than is the hope of every court, Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; But they will not find Liberty a Troy:— O, thou eternal Homer! I have now To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; And yet, like all men else, I must allow, To vie with thee would be about as vain As for a brook to cope with ocean’s flood; But still we moderns equal you in blood; If not in poetry, at least in fact; And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! Of which, howe’er the Muse describes each act, There should be ne’ertheless a slight substratum. But now the town is going to be attack’d; Great deeds are doing—how shall I relate ’em? Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches To colour up his rays from your despatches. O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! O, ye less grand long lists of kill’d and wounded! Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! O, Caesar’s Commentaries! now impart, ye Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded) A portion of your fading twilight hues, So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. When I call ‘fading’ martial immortality, I mean, that every age and every year, And almost every day, in sad reality, Some sucking hero is compell’d to rear, Who, when we come to sum up the totality Of deeds to human happiness most dear, Turns out to be a butcher in great business, Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness.