Of old, each with a helmet on his head,
Practiced their inconclusive feud
Upon no battlefield of unfeeling dew—
But on the prostrate stillness of the multitude!
Even their knightliest prowess they must rear,
Tamerlane, Alexander, Arthur, every king,
Upon the common clay from which they spring.
For see how slaves, on whom war falls, renew
The strength of war and disappear
Year after year