Glittering lances are the loom,
    Where the dusky warp we strain,
  Weaving many a soldier’s doom,
    Orkney’s woe, and Randoer’s bane.
The Fatal Sisters.  T. GRAY.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud;
And call the brave
To bloody grave,
To sleep without a shroud.
The Dance of Death.  SIR W. SCOTT.

                          He made me mad
  To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
  And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
  And that it was great pity, so it was,
  That villanous saltpetre should be digged
  Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
  Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed.
K.  Henry IV., Pt.  I. Act i.  Sc.3 SHAKESPEARE.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
Childe Harold, Canto I.  LORD BYRON.

           From the glittering staff unfurled
  Th’ imperial ensign, which, full high advanced,
  Shone like a meteor, streaming to the wind,
  With gems and golden lustre rich imblazed,
  Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while
  Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds: 
  At which the universal host upsent
  A shout that tore hell’s concave, and beyond
  Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  I.  MILTON.

When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war. Alexander the Great, Act iv.  Sc. 2.  N. LEE.

  That voice ... heard so oft
  In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
  Of battle when it raged.
Paradise Lost, Bk. 1.  MILTON.

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! 
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! 
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
King Richard III., Act v.  Sc. 8.  SHAKESPEARE.

We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,
And pass them current too.  God’s me, my horse!
King Henry IV., Pt.  I. Act ii.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

                               Never be it said
  That Fate itself could awe the soul of Richard. 
  Hence, babbling dreams; you threaten here in vain;
  Conscience, avaunt, Richard’s himself again! 
  Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds.  To horse! away! 
  My soul’s in arms, and eager for the fray.
Shakespeare’s Richard III. (Altered), Act. v.  Sc. 3.  C. GIBBER.

BEAUTY.