[Gutenberg 44641] • Boer War Lyrics

[...] I see great Mars in flame-knit mail, I hear the fierce god's buglers call. And gleamy steel from scabbard flies, War's every hound is red at mouth, No belching throat but havoc cries, Would drench in blood the Summer's drought. Out, Sense! some trick is here of phrenzied Night; These clamors wind no human breath, But ghostly haunt yon winsome light The phantom shades of legioned Death. And yet yon orb is surely Day's: The Land re-speaks him, and his glass, the sea;[...].