Man had not hellish foes enough besides,
That day and night for his destruction wait.
Milton.
Rash, fruitless war, from wanton glory wag’d
Is only splendid murder.
Thomson.
O war!—what, what art thou?
At once the proof and scourge of man’s fall’n state?
After the brightest conquest, what appears
Of all thy glories? for the vanquish’d chains!