And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody Diuretic.[420]
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills:
Thy plagues—thy famines—thy physicians—yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come;—but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field;
XIII.
There the still varying pangs, which multiply
Until their very number makes men hard