12 You Hottentot with clicking palate! you woolly-hair’d hordes!
The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing, The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go.
…Here, here from wanderings, strayings, lessons, wars, defeats—here at the west a voice triumphant—justifying all, A gladsome pealing cry—a song for once of utmost pride and satisfaction; I chant from it the common bulk, the general average horde, (the best sooner than the worst)—And now I chant old age, (My verses, written first for forenoon life, and for the summer’s, autumn’s spread, I pass to snow-white hairs the same, and give to pulses winter-cool’d the same;) As here in careless…
There are no more uses of "horde" in the book.
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A horde of reporters descended on the small town.
Nobody could withstand Genghis Khan and the Mongolian horde.