XXVIII.
The sun seem'd broken loose at last,
And settled slowly to the west,
Half hidden as he fell a-rest,
Yet, like the flying Parthian, cast
His keenest arrows as he pass'd.
On, on, the black men slowly drew
Their length, like some great serpent through
The sands, and left a hollow'd groove:
They march'd, they scarcely seem'd to move.
How patient in their muffled tread!
How like the dead march of the dead!
At last the slow black line was check'd,
An instant only; now again
It moved, it falter'd now, and now
It settled in its sandy bed,
And steeds stood rooted to the plain.
Then all stood still, and men somehow
Look'd down and with averted head;
Look'd down, nor dared look up, nor reck'd
Of any thing, of ill or good,
But bowed and stricken still they stood.
Like some brave band that dared the fierce
And bristled steel of gather'd host,
These daring men had dared to pierce
This awful vastness, dead and gray.
And now at last brought well at bay
They stood,—but each stood to his post;
Each man an unencompassed host.
Then one dismounted, waved a hand,
'Twas Morgan's stern and still command.
There fell a clash, like loosen'd chain,
And men dismounting loosed the rein.
Then every steed stood loosed and free;
And some stepp'd slow and mute aside,
And some sank to the sands and died,
And some stood still as shadows be,
And men stood gazing silently.