VII. THE BLIGHT OF WAR
All eyes now sought the brother of McGuire,
Who sat apart, some distance from the fire
Smoking in silence, while the flickering light
Mingled its crimson with his locks of white;
He, with his flowing, patriarchal beard,
A sage, from some forgotten age, appeared,
Or wrinkled seer from some enchanted clime,
Whose eye could pierce the veil of future time.
There in the ever thickening haze of smoke,