Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheet / Through their dark arteries reek with running gore; / At hearth, at board, before the household door, / 'T is the sole subject with which neighbors meet. / Girls at the feast, and children in the street, / Prattle of horrors; flash their little store / Of simple jests against the cannon's roar, / As if mere slaughter kept existence sweet. / O, heaven, I quail at the familiar way / This fool, the world, disports his jingling cap; / Murdering or dying with one grin agap! / Our very Love comes draggled from the fray, / Smiling at victory, scowling at mishap, / With gory Death companioned and at play.