Lo! where the arm'd men hasten—Lo! 'mid the clouds of dust,
the glint of bayonets;"
[IV. "HUMILIATION">[
"O trumpeter! methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest!
Thou melt'st my heart, my brain—thou movest, drawest,
changest them, at will:
And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me;
Thou takest away all cheering light—all hope:
I see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprest of the