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Or, in itself a god, what great desire ?
My labouring soul, with anxious thought
oppress'd,

Abhors this station of inglorious rest;
The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword.
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twin-
kling dim,

Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ?

Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,

And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? Then hear my thought: In deep and sullen grief

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief:

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