Friday, August 22, 2008
And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on:
the Victor shouts triumphant; he enjoys
The roar of cannon and the clang of arms,
And urges, by no soft relentings stopped,
the work of Death and Carnage. Yet should one,
A single sufferer from the field escaped,
Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet,
Lift his imploring eyes, the hero weeps;
He is grown human, and capricious Pity,
Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one.
With sympathy spontaneous:" Tis not Vitue,
Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.
;
8:21 AM
***
