Had startled nations, wakening to their woes—
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams,
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain
And festal melody of Loire or Seine;
And of those mothers who had watch’d and wept,
When on the field the unshelter’d conscript slept,
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there
Of sterner spirits, harden’d by despair;
Who, in their dark imaginings, again