XXXV.
Oh, spectral portent of Calamity!
Oh, ghost of violated Beauty smeared
With blood and fiery blackness. See it, see
Where War’s wild wave hath swept o’er homes endeared—
All, all by Havoc’s burning ploughshare seared!
An awful silence reigns, more horrid than
The late artillery’s roar—a trophy reared
To ruin in each street, that crimson ran.
A plague infects the air from piled, putrescent man!