What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 910

The varying fortune of each separate field,

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall?

In this the struggle was the same with all;

Save that distempered passions lent their force

In bitterness that banished all remorse.

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain,

The captive died upon the battle-plain:[kq]

In either cause, one rage alone possessed

The empire of the alternate victor's breast; 920

And they that smote for freedom or for sway,

Deemed few were slain, while more remained to slay.

It was too late to check the wasting brand,

And Desolation reaped the famished land;

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread,

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead.