But meek, without a sword, he came.

A myriad horsemen swept the field

With Attila, the whirlwind Hun;

A myriad cannon spake for him,

The silent, dread Napoleon.

For these had ready spoil to give,

Had reeking spoil for savage hands;

Slaves, and fair wives, and pillage rare:

The wealth of cities: teeming lands.

And if the world, once drunk with blood,