By the infinities of agony,
Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard—
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
Turned back within its socket,—these reward
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!
XIV.
Yet I love Glory;—Glory's a great thing:—
Think what it is to be in your old age
Maintained at the expense of your good King: