Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears,
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd
The women with their hair about their ears,
And natural agonies, with a slight shade
Of feeling; for, however habit sears

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow

And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses,

They parted for the present-these to await, According to the artillery's hits or misses, What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate (Uncertainty is one of many blisses,

A mortgage on Humanity's estate),

warrow.

To burn a town which never did them harm.

And these he call'd on; and, what's strange, they came

Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.

Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb,
And that odd impulse which, in wars or creeds,
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.
XXXIX.

By Jove, he was a noble fellow, Johnson;
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles,
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun

soon

We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon Her steady breath (which some months the same still is).

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle,
And could be very busy without bustle.

XL.

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so
Upon reflection, knowing that behind
He would find others who would fain be rid so
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind;
Retire a little, merely to take breath.
But when they light upon immediate death,

XLI.

But Johnson only ran off, to return

With many other warriors, as we said, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern,