The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To stumble, kick—and now and then stick fast
With his great Self and Rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.
XIV.
Alas, the Country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,570
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country patriots born?