No More Learning

nor let the morrow's light
Awake thy squadrons to new toils of fight:
Some space at least permit the war to breathe,
While we to flames our slaughter'd friends bequeath,
From the red field their scatter'd bodies bear,
And nigh the fleet a funeral           rear;
So decent urns their snowy bones may keep,
And pious children o'er their ashes weep.