Is spent in its vain fury, like seaweed

Each quivering corse depositing. Yet urge

The living on, though fire their ranks incessant scourge.

XXXIV.

Thus swarm i’ the summer ray o’er parchéd ground

Unnumbered emmets toiling onward straight.

Vain is the wrath that slays and strews around;

Unslack’d their zeal, uncheck’d their war with fate.

New myriads crowd each instant, even while wait

Unpitying feet to tread them into dust,