Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weave
Into a dreadful certainty.
I hear the war-cry on the distant field!
I see the dust, by charging squadrons cart;
The cannon’s blaze, the flash of burnished steel;
Bright banner’s wave, the rapid march and wheel,
Where every step may be, perhaps, the last
A soldier e’er may take.
Closely, more closely, still I see them sweep,
Their wings are furled, and eagerly, they tread,