Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.

But in the battle’s flame

How glorious he came!—

Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,

While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.

’Twas he,—his voice, his might,—

Could stay the panic flight,

Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat,

And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.

He was our modern Mars;