And shells have razed the quondam homes:
Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill,
Whose cellars are but catacombs.
Beyond the village, Refugees
Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief,
Or, gassed, implore on bended knees
For death, despairing of relief.
With bayonets and faces set
The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led,
Present a gruesome parapet,—