His bloody hand
Snatched two unhappy of my martial band,
And dashed like dogs against the stony floor.—Pope: Hom. Odys.
The Pilgrim oft
At dead of night, ’mid his orison, hears
Aghast the voice of time, disparting towers,
Tumbling all precipitous down-dashed,
Rattling around, loud thundering to the moon.
—Dyer: Ruins of Rome.
What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce,