And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.
VII.
Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,
Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams,
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,
That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams?
Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams
Portentous light! and music’s voice is dumb;
Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams,
Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,