He is come to ope
  The purple testament of bleeding war;
  But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,
  Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons
  Shall ill become the flower of England’s face,
  Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
  To scarlet indignation, and bedew
  Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood.
King Richard II., Act iii.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

War, my lord,
Is of eternal use to human kind;
For ever and anon when you have passed
A few dull years in peace and propagation,
The world is overstocked with fools, and wants
A pestilence at least, if not a hero.
Edwin.  G. JEFFREYS.

  O War! thou hast thy fierce delight,
  Thy gleams of joy intensely bright! 
  Such gleams as from thy polished shield
  Fly dazzling o’er the battle-field!
Lord of the Isles.  SIR W. SCOTT.

  The tyrant custom, most grave senators,
  Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war
  My thrice-driven bed of down.
Othello, Act i.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

  Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
  The cry is still, They come.  Our castle’s strength
  Will laugh a siege to scorn:  here let them lie
  Till famine and the ague eat them up.
Macbeth, Act v.  Sc. 5.  SHAKESPEARE.

War, war is still the cry.—­“war even to the knife!” Childe Harold, Canto I.  LORD BYRON.

  WAR.

  O, the sight entrancing,
  When morning’s beam is glancing
    O’er files arrayed
    With helm and blade,
  And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! 
  When hearts are all high beating,
  And the trumpet’s voice repeating
    That song, whose breath
    May lead to death,
  But never to retreating. 
  O, the sight entrancing. 
  When morning’s beam is glancing
    O’er files arrayed
    With helm and blade,
  And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.
O, the sight entrancing.  T. MOORE.

                 From the tents,
  The armorers, accomplishing the knights,
  With busy hammers closing rivets up,
  Give dreadful note of preparation.
King Henry V., Act iv.  Chorus.  SHAKESPEARE.

Father, I call on thee! 
Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil me,
Lightnings are flashing, death’s thick darts assail me: 
Ruler of battles, I call on thee! 
Father, oh lead thou me!
Prayer During the Battle.  German of K.T.  KOeRNER. Trans. of J.S.  BLACKIE.

  Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
  While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
  Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
  With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe;
  And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
  Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame!
Lochiel’s Warning.  T. CAMPBELL.