But soon came a terror more dread to the soul
Than war's wild thunder-crash when its battle-clouds roll,
And the heavens are shrouded from light, while a glare,
As of hell, breaks in hot, lurid streams on the air!
It was Famine, grim-visaged and gaunt,
To the camp most appalling of foes—
Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure
As the swift headsman's deadliest blows.
O'er the ramparts it sullenly strode,
Glided darkly by tent and by wall,