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,