As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
Passed off to heaven, translated, and not killed;
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him.
Coleridge.
Of all the murderous trades by mortals plied,
’Tis war alone that never violates
The hallowed day by simulate respect—