While 'tis to them he owes sincerest thanks

For Peace and Safety, that are earn'd in War....

As well might he who eats the flesh of Lambs,

And smacks the ichor in a savoury dish,

Boast his humanity, and say "My hand

Ne'er slew a Lamb;" and censure as a crime,

The Butcher's cruel, necessary trade.

  In Battle, the chance-medley game of Death,

Where every one still hopes 'till he expires,

Less horror shocks the mind contemplative,

Than where, in slow procession's solemn pace,

Doom'd wretches meet their destin'd fate in bonds,

Who know the moment to expect the blow,

And count the moments 'till that moment comes:

Or where Oppression wages War, in Peace,

On the defenceless: on the hapless man

Who holds his breath but by another's will:

Whose Life is only one long cruel Death! ...

Hardly he fares, and hopelessly he toils;

And when his driver's anger, or caprice,

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