No Raven's wing can stretch the flight so far As the torn bandrols of Napoleon's war. Choose then your climate, fix your best abode, He'll make you deserts and he'll bring you blood. How could you fear a dearth? have not mankind, Tho slain by millions, millions left behind? Has not conscription still the power to weild Her annual faulchion o'er the human field? A faithful harvester!