Once more they crowd—once more the volley came,
They sink like withered grass that feels the flame,
A ghastly pile of quivering limbs and gore
Bars up the way and chokes the narrow door,
But fast and thick, on numbers numbers press,
And death that thins seems scarce to leave them less,
Till in one mass, confused and fierce they close;
Shot answers shot, and blows are met by blows,
Useless the rifle now in that red strife,
Swings the short sword and speeds the gory knife,