of the rifled shell.
The gray ranks rushing, horse and foot, at the
flaming wall of blue
Break a hole in its centre, and some one shouts:
"See the little cadets go through!"
A shell shoots out of its hood of smoke, and slows
mid-air and leaps
At our corps that is crossing a field of wheat, and
we stagger and fall in heaps;
We close the ranks, and they break again, when a