AID, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light, Our mortal ken! Inspire a perfect trust (While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are just: Which few can hold committed to a fight That shows, ev'n on its better side, the might Of proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 'Mid clouds enveloped of polemic dust, Which showers of blood seem rather to incite Than to allay. Anathemas are hurled From both sides; veteran thunders (the brute test 10 Of truth) are met by fulminations new-- Tartarean flags are caught at, and unfurled-- Friends strike at friends--the flying shall pursue-- And Victory sickens, ignorant where to rest!
