And the hot charge panted nigh.
“You saw me writhe at the side of the trench:
You bade—I know not what:
With one last gnash, with one last wrench,
I sped my last, sure shot.
“The thing that lies on the sodden ground
Like a wrack of the whirlwind’s track,
Your men have made of the body of me,—
But they could not call you back!
“In that black game I won, I won!