"THE PLAGUE WITHIN OUR GATES."
"The Plague is at our doors!" the watchers cried amain:—
At the shrill call England raised up her head:
"Arm! arm against the Plague!" the watchers cried again:
England turned round upon her lazy bed,
Folding her arms in dreamy drowsihead—
"Arm! arm!" the watchers cried—the watchers cried in vain!
England not stirring slept; or if perchance one stirred,
'Twas but to vent a muttered curse on those
Whose warning trumpet-call through folds of slumber heard,
Broke in upon the pleasure of repose,
With ugly thoughts of death and dying throes—
So Echo's voice gave back the watchers' idle word.
As when a leaguering host, under the shroud of night,
Hath sapped a city's wall, and creeping in,
Flashes with sword and fire upon the sleepers' sight,
Who springing, drunk with fear and dazed with din,
Out of their beds, to grope for arms begin—
Arms that should long ere then have been girt on for fight—
So suddenly the Plague hath crept within our gate;
With even such wild yell and hideous note
Of fear, we start from sleep, to find the choking weight
Of those blue, bony fingers on the throat;—
To meet those stony eyes that glare and gloat
On victims who, fore-armed, had struggled with their fate.
We run this way and that; we cling to all that come
With nostrum or defence; and as we fall
We curse the watchers too, and ask, "Why were ye dumb?
Why waked ye not the sleepers with your call?
Why urged ye not the warriors to the wall?"
Meanwhile to the Plague's breath lives helplessly succumb.
And while he stalks abroad, on his triumphant way,
We fetter his allies; his arms we hide:
Allies—that till he came had unmolested sway
To make within our walls these breaches wide,
Through which our grim and ghastly Foe did stride;
Arms—that for his right hand we have furbished many a day.
And now with bended knees, and heads bowed to the ground,
In sudden piety high Heaven we sue
To stay the Plague that still his mightiest strength has found
In what we have done ill or failed to do—
Whose weapons we keep ever sharp and new—
Some of whose champions bold we as our chiefs have crowned.