Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again;
Lash hence these over-weening rags of France,
These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives;
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd them-
selves.
Shaks. Richard III.
England bath long been mad and scarr'd herself;
The brother blindly shed the brother's blood,
The father rashly slaughter'd his own son,
The son compell'd been butcher to the sire.
Shaks, Richard III.
Our soldiers, like the night-owl's lazy flight
Or like a lazy thresher with a flail,—
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numb'ring our ave-marias with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
Shaks. Henry VI. Part III.
Hence, therefore, thou nice scratch;
A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel,
Must glove this hand: and hence, thou sickly
grief;
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,
Which princes, flesh'd with conquest, aim to hit.
Shaks. Henry IV. Part II.
Almost afraid to know thyself! It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile:
Where sighs and groans, and shricks that rend
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.
Milton's Paradise Lost. Where cattle pastur'd late, now scatter'd lies With carcasses and arms th' ensanguin'd field Deserted.
Milton's Paradise Lost.
One to destroy is murder by the law,
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow To murder thousands takes a specious name,
He is unwise that to a market goes,
Where there is nothing to be sold but blows.
Aleyn's Henry VII.
Rash, fruitless war, from wanton glory wag'd, Is only splendid murder.
Thomson's Edward and Eleanora. I ne'er approv'd this rash, romantic war, Begot by hot-brain'd bigots, and fomented By the intrigues of proud designing priests. All ages have their madness, this is ours.
Is death more cruel from a private dagger
Than in the field, from murdering swords of
thousands?
Or does the number slain make slaughter glorious?
Cibber's King John.
Onward they march embattled, to the sound
Of martial harmony; fifes, cornets, drums,
That rouse the sleepy soul to arms, and bold
Heroic deeds.
Extended empire, like expanded gold,
Exchanges solid strength for feeble splendour.
Dr. Johnson's Irene.
It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight! The billows foam'd beneath a thousand oars. Fast as they land, the red-cross ranks unite, Legions on legions brightening all the shores. Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars, Then peals the warlike thunder of the drum, Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish pours, And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb; Jeffery's Edwin. For bold in freedom's cause, the bands of ocean
Is of eternal use to human kind
For ever and anon when you have pass'd
A few dull years in peace and propagation,
The world is overstock'd with fools, and wants
A pestilence at least if not a hero.
Scott's Vision of Don Roderick,
'Twas bustle in the court below,
"Mount and march forward!" forth they go;
Steeds neigh and trample all around,
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets sound.
Scott's Rokeby
Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,
And sackbut deep, and psaltery,
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,
Did up the mountain come.
The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth The unreap'd harvest, from the village church No eve-song-bell was heard, the shepherd's dog Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth, Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet, The rank weed flourish'd.
Southey's Joan of Arc.
War is honourable
In those who do their native rights maintain;
In those whose swords an iron barrier are
Between the lawless spoiler and the weak;
But is in those who draw the offensive blade
For added power or gain, sordid and despicable
As meanest office of the worldly churl.
Joanna Baillie's Ethwald.
O war! - what, what art thou?
At once the proof and scourge of man's fall'n
After the brightest conquest, what appears
Of all thy glories? for the vanquish'd, chains!
For the proud victors, what? alas! to reign
O'er desolated nations!
Hannah More's David and Goliah.
While des olation, snatching from the hand
Of time the scythe of ruin, sits aloft,
Or stalks in dreadful majesty abroad.
Hannah More's Belshazzar.
I own my natural weakness; I have not
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder
Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death
Of men surpris'd, a glory.
Passions to be rous'd up; while rul'd by men;
While all the powers and treasures of a land
Are at the beck of the ambitious crowd;
While injuries can be inflicted, or
Insults be offer'd; yea, while rights are worth
Maintaining, freedom keeping, or life having,
So long the sword shall shine; so long shall war
Continue, and the need of war remain.
A crash -as when some swollen cloud
Cracks o'er the tangled trees!
With side to side, and spar to spar,
Whose smoking decks are these?
I know Saint George's blood-red cross,
Thou mistress of the seas,—
But what is she, whose streaming bars
Roll out before the breeze?
Ah! well her iron ribs are knit,
Whose thunders strive to quell
The bellowing throats, the blazing lips
That peal'd the Armada's knell!
The mist was clear'da wreath of stars
Rose o'er the crimson swell,
And wavering from its haughty peak,
The cross of England fell!
O. W. Holmes — The Pilgrim's Vision
Oh! once was felt the storm of war!
It had an earthquake's roar;
It flash'd upon the mountain height,
And smok'd along the shore.
It thunder'd in a dreaming ear,
And up the farmer sprang;
It mutter'd in a bold true heart,
And a warrior's harness rang.
J. G. C. Brainard. Ah! the smoke has roll'd away;
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of grey.
| Desire of wine and all delicious drinks,
Which many a famous warrior overturns,
Thou could'st repress, nor did the dancing ruby
Sparkling, out-pour'd, the flavour or the smell,
Or taste that cheers the heart of gods and men,
Allure thee from the cool crystalline stream.
Milton's Samson Agonistes
Where fountain or fresh current flow'd
Against the eastern ray, translucent, pure,
With torch etherial of heaven's fiery rod,
I drank, from the clear milky juice allaying Thirst, and refreshed; nor envied them the grape, Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the Whose heads that turbulent liquor fills with fumes.
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them Wine, wine, thy power and praise ploughs the Northern ball.
Hath ever been echo'd in minstrel lays;
Whittier's Poems. But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim
To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame.
Miss Eliza Cook.
O, war is cruel-hearted! ay, the man
That in the private walks of life was kind,
Even to the nursing mother's tender fears;
Who started at a funeral knell and walk'd
With slow, sad step, and sympathizing eye,
When the hearse pass'd with one he never knew-
Why he, when war's stern strength is on his soul,
Will stalk in apathy o'er slaughter'd friends,
Counting the dead and dying, as their loss
Was all computed in the numbers slain.
Mrs. Hale's Ormond Grosvenor.
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
What treasures exist in the cold deep well;
Sink in despair on the red parch'd earth,
And then ye may reckon what water is worth.
Miss Eliza Cook.
How beautiful the water is!
To me 'tis wondrous fair-
No spot can ever lonely be
If water sparkle there;
It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
Of grandeur, or delight,
And every heart is gladde. made
When water greets the sight.
Lift up, lift up the standard,
And plant it by the well!
And, gather'd underneath its folds,
A choral anthem swell!
The anthem that is set in praise
Of brooks and cisterns sing!
Give one strain to the main,
Give another to the spring!
Yea, give a chorus loud and long
To aqueduct and spring.
We sing the praise of water!
While this COLD WATER fills my cup,
Duns dare not assail me;
Sheriffs shall not lock me up,
Nor my neighbours bail me.
For the cool water we have quaff'd,
|See what money can do: that can change
Men's manners; alter their conditions!
How tempestuous the slaves are without it!
O thou powerful metal! what authority
John Pierpont. Is in thee! thou art the key to all men's
Mouths with thee, a man may lock up the jaws
Of an informer; and without thee, he
Source of all Good, we owe thee much; Our lips have touch'd no burning draught This day, nor shall they ever touch.
Let light on water shine,-
The light of love and truth
Then shall that drink divine
Be quaff'd by age and youth.
Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit,
Or what is worse, be left by it?
Why dost thou load thyself when thou 'rt to fly,
Oh, man! ordain'd to die?
Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high,
Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself let fall-Thou who art under ground to lie?
In one fair bumper let us toast them all!
Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the rills,
And the ribands of silver unwind from the hills;
They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's
dream,
But the lilies of innocence float on their streams.
O. W. Holmes.
Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fiait must see,
For death, alas! is reaping thee.
Men venture necks to gain a fortune:
The soldier does it every day,
(Eight to the week) for sixpence pay:
Your pettifoggers damn their souls,
To share with knaves in cheating fools:
And merchants vent'ring through the main
Slight pirates, rocks, and horns, for gain.
WEALTH. (See also GOLD and RICHES.) T is virtue, wit, and worth, and all
That I might live alone once with my gold!
Oh 't is a sweet companion! kind and true!
A man may trust it, when his father cheats him,
Brother, or friend, or wife. O wondrous pelf,
That which makes all men false, is true itself.
Jonson's Case is Alter'd.
Money, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,
Whence com'st thou, that thou art so fresh and
fine?
I know thy parentage is base and low:
Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.
Puissant gold! red earth at first made man;
Now it makes villain: this refined clod
Can what nor love, nor time, nor valour can ;
Jove could do more in gold, than in a god.
Destruction surer comes, and rattles louder,
Out of a mine of gold, than one of powder.
Aleyn's Henry VII.
What's orthodox, and true believing
Against a conscience? a good living.
That men divine and sacred call:
For what is worth in any thing
But so much money as 't will bring?
Love-passions are like parables,
By which men still mean something else,
Though love be all the world's pretence,
Money's the mythologic sense;
The real substance of the shadow,
Which all address and courtship's made to.
Butler's Hudibras
'Tis not those orient pearls our teeth,
That you are so transported with:
But those we wear about our necks,
Produce those amorous effects.
Butler's Hudibras
What makes all doctrines plain and clear?
About two hundred pounds a year,
And that which was prov'd true before,
Prove false again? two hundred more.
What makes y' encroach upon our trade,
And damn all others?- to be paid.
What makes the breaking of all oaths
A holy duty?-food and clothes."
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