V.
So deem’st thou—so each mortal deems,
Of that which is from that which seems:—
But other harvest here
Than that which peasant’s scythe demands,
Was gather’d in by sterner hands,
With bayonet, blade, and spear.
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,
No stinted harvest thin and cheap!
Heroes before each fatal sweep
Fell thick as ripen’d grain;
And ere the darkening of the day,
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay
The ghastly harvest of the fray,
The corpses of the slain.