Though lives of brave and gentle foes be spilt,
That loathe this coward sport;
On each, without distinction, worst or best,
Fouled by a nation's crime, one doom must fall;
Be you its instrument, and leave the rest
To God, the Judge of all
Let it be said of you, when sounds at length
Over the final field the victor's strain:—
"They struck at infamy with all their strength,
And earth is clean again!"