XXI.
But I was waken’d as the dreamers waken,
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,
And they must battle till their blood is shed
On their own threshold floor. A path for light
Through my torn breast was shatter’d by the might
Of the swift thunder-stroke; and freedom’s tread
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain,
Making the blighted place all green with life again.