What was 't to him to hear two women sob?
LXXVIII.
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.