Their dream of triumph, totter, sink, and fall.
Even won the prize, how terrible the cost!
The victory-flag to thousands were a pall.
Oh Lord of Hosts, arise, or butchery smites them all!
XXXVI.
With blood-red arms see Carnage, screaming hag,
Gloat o’er each gash that lets the life away,
Plash through the crimson stream, and curse if lag
The shower of death-bolts darkening bright mid-day.
See sopt her hands in gore, see ’mid the fray