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675 WAR-continued.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble ;
Honour, but an empty bubble ;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying. Dryden, Aler. Feast, 39.
No law betwixt two sov'reigns can decide,
But that of arms, where fortune is the judge,
Soldiers the lawyers, and the bar the field. 16. Love Triumph.
War wastes the noblest part of the creation,
The boast and masterpiece of the great Maker,
That wears in vain th' impression of his image,
Unprivileged from thee!

Rowe, Tamerlane.
My voice is still for war,
Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate
Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? Addison, Ca.11.l.
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions bear away their rage.

Pope, Ode on Cecilia's Day. Cease to consult, the time for action calls, War, horrid war, approaches to your walls ! Pope,Iliad, 11.967. Rash fruitless war, from wanton glory waged, Is only splendid murder. Thomson, Edw. and Eleonora, 1. 1.

War, my lord, Is of eternal use to human kind; For ever and anon when you have pass'd A few dull years in peace and propagation, The world is overstock'd with fools, and wants A pestilence at least, if not a hero. Geo. Jefferys, Edwin. Let the gulld fool the toils of war pursue, Where bleed the many to enrich the few.

Shenstone, Judgment of Hercules, 158. One to destroy is murder by the law, And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe ; To murder thousands takes a specious name, War’s glorious art, and gives immortal fame. Young, L. of F. 7. So stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight; Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife Her dearer self, the partner of her life ; From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, And view'd his banner, or believ'd she view'd.

Darwin, Loves of the Plants. War's a game which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.

Cowper, Tusk, v. 187.

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No blood-stain'd victory, in story bright,
Can give the philosophic mind delight;
No triumph please, while rage and death destroy :
Reflection sickens at the monstrous joy.

Bloomfield, Farmer's Boy, Summer.
We know, too, they are very fond of war,
A pleasure-like all pleasures-rather dear. Byron, D.J.11.156.
All was prepared—the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay-
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain,
Immediately in others grew again. Byron, D. J. viii. 2.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic.
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic;
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills !
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come; but all may yield
To the true portrait of the battle-field. Byron, D. J. VIII. 12.
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ;
All that the body perpetrates of bad ;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses ;
All that the devil would do, if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses;
All by which hell is peopled, or is sad
As hell-mere mortals who their power abuse-
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 16. D.J. viii. 123.
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified. Byron, D. J. 11. 4.
By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey !
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ;
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array.Ch. H. 1.40.
War, war is still the cry, war even to the knife ! 16.C.H.1.86.

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Oh, world! Oh, men! what are ye, and our best designs, That we must work by crime to punish crime ? And slay, as if death had but this one gate, When a few years would make their sword superfluous ! Byron. What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? The varying fortune of each separate field, The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? The smoking ruin and the crumbled wall ? In this the struggle was the same with all.

Byron, Lara. Thus, as the stream and ocean greet, With waves that madden as they meet Thus join the bands whom mutual wrong, And fate and fury drive along.

Byron, Giaour. The death-shot hissing from afarThe shock-the shout-the groan of war Reverberate along that vale, More suited to the shepherd's tale : Though few the numbers—their's the strife, That neither spares, nor speaks for life. Byron, Giaour. I own my natural weakness; I have not Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight Of blood, which spouts through hoary scalps, is not, To me a thing of triumph, nor the death Of men surprised, a glory. Byron, Doge of Ven. III. 2.

With common men There needs too oft the show of war to keep The substance of sweet peace, and for a king, 'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than lov'd. Ib. Sardanap, 1.2.

War is honourable In those who do their native rights maintain ; In those whose swords an iron barrier are Between the lawless spoiler and the weak; But is, in those who draw th' offensive blade For added power or gain, sordid and despicable As meanest office of the worldly churl. Jo. Baillie, Ethwald. He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage, blind.

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And he said “ Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword, for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man !" Chas. Mackay, Tubal Cain, 3.

Such is war!
O heavens! when will the spiritual Sun arise,
And with His beams effulgent, drive away
The mists of error that so long have hung
Their dark, unnatural drapery o'er the mind,
That broods o'er human carnage ! when will man
Turn from the path of Cain, and learn to see
A brother without hating ?

Rufus Dawes (Am.).
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred,
And every nation that should lift again
His hand against a brother, on its forehead
Should wear for evermore the curse of Cain.

Longfellowo. WARNING—see Caution.

Men, that stumble at the threshold,
Are well foretold—that danger lurks within. Sh. Hen.v1.3, 1v.7.
How far your eyes may pierce, I cannot tell,

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. Sh. Lear, 1. 4. WARRIOR.

He was a man of rare, undoubted might,
Famous throughout the world for warlike praise,
And glorious spoils purchas'd in perilous fight;
Full many doughty knights he, in his days,
Had done to death, subdued in equal frays. Spenser, F. Q.
The painful warrior, famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the books of honor razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.

Sh. Sun. 25. WASHINGTON.

Washington's a watchword such as ne'er

Shall sink while there's au echo left to air.Byron, Age of Bronze. WATER- see Thirst. Smooth runs the water, where the brook is deep.

Sh. Hen. vi. 2, 111. 1. More water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of; and easy 'tis Of a cut loaf to steal a shive.

Sh. Tit. And. 11. 1. Water the first of all things we do hold. Pindar(A.Moore)O. 1.


679 WATER--continued.

Leal temperance, friends; and hear without disdain
The choice of water. Thus the Coan sage
Opin'd, and thus the learn’d of every school :
What least of foreign principles partakes
Is best ; the lightest then, which bears the touch
Of fire the least, and soonest mounts the air ;
The most insipid, the most void of smell.

Armstrong, Art P. H. 11. 406.

Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth :
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where truth is—in a well.

Wine, wine, thy power and praise Byron, D. J. 11. 84.
Have ever been echo'd in minstrel lays;
But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim
To fill up a niche in the temple of fame.
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
What treasures exist in the cold deep well ;
Sink in despair on the red parch'd earth,
And then ye may reckon what water is worth. E. Cook, Water.

Water is the mother of the vine, The nurse and fountain of fecundity, The adorner and refresher of the world.

"Tis a little thing Chas. Muckay, The Dionysia. To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, draiu'd by feverish lips May give a thrill of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juice

Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. Talfourd, Sun. III. WEAKNESS-- see Tears.

How sometimes nature will betray its folly,
Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime
To harder bosoms !

Sh. Wint. T. 1. 2.
Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone.

Sh. Jul. C. 1. 2. If weakness may excuse, What murderer, what traitor, parricide, Incestuous, sacrilegious, but may plead it? All wickedness is weakness; that plea. therefore, With God or man will gain thee no remission.

Milton, Sam. Agun. 833.

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