Beat of the drums, and thunder of the guns,
And Bouillé’s voice, assurance of relief!—
Another night of council, then at dawn
We slept. The moon was crescent and a star
Shone on to guide the white, enchanted boat
Through seas of ether coloured like a shell;
The trees were dark beneath; there was no sound;
The air was cold,—we laid us down and slept.
Saint Gris! No dreams did trouble us that day!—
[He rests upon the choir step.