What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 910 The varying fortune of each separate field, The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield? The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? In this the struggle was the same with all; Save that distempered passions lent their force In bitterness that banished all remorse. None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, The captive died upon the battle-plain:[kq] In either cause, one rage alone possessed The empire of the alternate victor's breast; 920 And they that smote for freedom or for sway, Deemed few were slain, while more remained to slay. It was too late to check the wasting brand, And Desolation reaped the famished land; The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. XI. Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, The first success to Lara's numbers clung: But that vain victory hath ruined all; They form no longer to their leader's call: 930 In blind confusion on the foe they press, And think to snatch is to secure success. The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, Lure on the broken brigands to their fate: In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, To check the headlong fury of that crew; In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame; The wary foe alone hath turned their mood, And shown their rashness to that erring brood: 940 The feigned retreat, the nightly ambuscade, The daily harass, and the fight delayed, The long privation of the hoped supply, The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, And palls the patience of his baffled art, Of these they had not deemed: the battle-day They could encounter as a veteran may; But more preferred the fury of the strife,[kr] And present death, to hourly suffering life: 950 And Famine wrings, and Fever sweeps away His numbers melting fast from their array; Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent; But few remain to aid his voice and hand, And thousands dwindled to a scanty band: Desperate, though few, the last and best remained To mourn the discipline they late disdained. One hope survives, the frontier is not far, And thence they may escape from native war: 960 And bear within them to the neighbouring state An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate: Hard is the task their father-land to quit, But harder still to perish or submit. XII.