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SKETCHES.
33
And on the verge of this wild sea
Famine and death doth cry;
The cries of women and of babes
Over the field doth fly.
The king is seen raging afar,
With all his men of might;
Like blazing comets scattering death
Thro' the red feverous night.
Beneath his arm like sheep they die,
And groan upon the plain;
The battle faints, and bloody men
Fight upon hills of slain.
Now death is sick, and riven men.
Labour and toil for life;
Steed rolls on steed, and shield on shield,
Sunk in this sea of strife!
The god of war is drunk with blood,
The earth doth faint and fail;
The stench of blood makes sick the heavens,
Ghosts glut the throat of hell!
F
