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.