A mist is rising from the plain below me, And as I look, the vapors shape themselves Into strange figures, as if unawares My lips had breathed the Tetragrammaton, And from their graves, o'er all the battlefields Of armageddon, the long-buried captains Had started, with their thousands, and ten thousands, And rushed together to renew their wars, Powerless, and weaponless, and without a sound!
"The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The mot, familiar to the classical scholar, was doubtless attributed in his day to that dashing sheik Chedorlaomer, and will be ascribed to both leaders in the final battle of armageddon.
"The Creed of the Old South 1865-1915"
Basil L. Gildersleeve
A strange and terrible sight it was to see them flashing down through the darkness, like the fiery darts that shall destroy the wicked in the day of armageddon.
"Queen Sheba's Ring"
H. Rider Haggard