Hushed be your strife, Pygmæan men of war!
See, see, ye tremble at the lightning-scar.
Your brands are sheath’d—ye feel as feathers, dust.
Away! nor God’s designs profanely mar,
Wreaking on brother-forms your gory lust.
In vain! France tempts her doom, and England holds her trust!
XXXVIII.
Next morn the absent corps our army join.
Joy to our Chieftain for his guidance true!