through the open gates are whelmed by a multitude of
foemen that blends its crowd with theirs; they scape not
the agony of death, but on the very threshold, with their 35
native walls around them, in the sanctuary of home, they
breathe away their lives. Some close the gates: they dare
not give ingress to their friends nor take them within the
walls, implore as they may: and a piteous carnage ensues,
these guarding the approach sword in hand, those rushing
on the sword’s point. Some, borne on by the deluge,
stream headlong into the moat; some in blind agony,