Not hate, but glory, made these chiefs contend;
And each brave foe was in his soul a friend.
The Iliad, Bk. VII. HOMER. Trans. of POPE.
Ay me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron.
Hudibras, Pt. I. Canto III. S. BUTLER.
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage;—loud, and more loud
The discord grows: till pale Death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud.
* * * * *
War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight,
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade,
And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones
Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore.
The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean.
War. P.B. SHELLEY.
One to destroy is murder by the law;
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
To murder thousands takes a specious name,
War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
Love of Fame, Satire VII. DR. E. YOUNG.
Great princes have great playthings.
* * * * *
But war's a game which, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at.
The Task: Winter Morning Walk. W. COWPER.
One murder made a villain,
Millions a hero. Princes were privileged
To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime.
Death B. PORTEUS.