Of musketry and cannon feels transformed—
Spurred like a race-horse bounding to the goal,
Till death’s a sport to venturers conflict-warmed,
And not by men but fiends seems San Sebastian stormed.
IX.
Oh, sleepless eyes and aching foreheads tell
In homes far distant how those lives are prized,
Which now are diced away, though loved so well—
On Glory’s shadowy altar sacrificed!
The heart-wrung sob at parting undisguised,