Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his brightness
On the whiteness of the snow-drifts and the ruins of the town—
On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended
Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and brown.
Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early
With the pearly light and glistering of the March’s snowy morn;
Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary,
As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.
Then we heard De Rouville’s orders, “To the borders!” and the dismal,
Dark, abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke;