VII.
Far other harvest-home and feast,
Than claims the boor from scythe released,
On these scorch’d fields were known!
Death hover’d o’er the maddening rout,
And, in the thrilling battle-shout,
Sent for the bloody banquet out
A summons of his own.
Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye
Could well each destined guest espy,
Well could his ear in ecstacy
Distinguish every tone
That fill’d the chorus of the fray—
From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray,
From charging squadrons’ wild hurra,
From the wild clang that mark’d their way,—
Down to the dying groan,
And the last sob of life’s decay
When breath was all but flown.