XXXV.

And all--must all be slaughtered? Lord of Hosts! Must this great valour be a Holocaust? Must men like oxen perish at their posts, And all the guerdon of their daring lost? Still do they mount and slow receding, crost Their dream of triumph, totter, sink, and fall. Even won the prize, how terrible the cost! The victory-flag to thousands were a pall. Oh Lord of Hosts, arise, or butchery smites them all!