Classic Poem

The cannon roared, and deafening was the sound,
When that grim Rider of the Pale Horse led
The plunging squadrons till their hoofs were red.
Where the charged wires left a heaping mound
Of writhing wounded, there the Gatlings ground
Infernal horror, and with fury fed
The maw of Havoc; then, in awful dread,
The wounded saw the surgeons probe the wound.
The ocean mine the armored ship benumbs,
And lydite shells, with suffocating breath,
Swirl the crews down in agony untold:
The sea,—a wandering cave of prowling bombs;
The air,—a flying arsenal of death;
And man,—the “food for powder,” as of old.