Classic Poem

On our Pharsalian Plain, containing space
For Caesar's Armies, Pompey's to outface,
An handful of our men are walled round,
With Tawny Bands, anon their pieces sound
A Madrigal; like Hail the Bullets fly,
An Emblem of Heavens Artillery.
Heres Hosts to Handfuls, of a few they leave
Fewer to tell how many they bereave.
Fool hardy Fortitude, it had been sure,
Thousands of Shot, and Arrows to endure:
Without all hopes of some requital too,
SOnumerous and pestilent a foe.
Most Fought like Dragons ; through this Indian mist,
The Beams of Valour break where e'r they list.
Who died ('tis thought) sold lives at such a rate,
As doth the fury of the foes abate.
Some musing a Retreat, and thence to run,
Have in an instant, all their business done.
They Sink, and Die, their wonted sorrows weight,
They Tumble at their Feet, and follow strait.
Here Captious ones, without their Queries lie,
The Quaker here, the Presbiterian by.
The Scruple dormant lies of thee and thou,
And most as one to Deaths dominion bow.
Such who out-live the fate of others fly,
Into the Neighbouring Swamps of misery.
Those who might die like men, like beasts must range,
Uncertain whither for a better change.
Such Natives hunt and chase with Tygers mind,
And plague with Cruelties such as they find.
When shall this showre of Blood be over? when?
Quickly we pray (good Lord) say thou Amen .