IN FRENCH FIELDS.
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Like some frail reed beneath an autumn gale.
Where were his legions? Scattered on the plains,
Or buried in the snow. What now remains?
What hides the future still? Ah, who can say?
He turned to God, for one enlightening ray.
'Is this the vengeance, God of Hosts?' he cried,
And his faint murmur on his pale lips died.
'Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?'
A pause; his name was called; of flame a jet
Sprang in the darkness; a voice answered, 'No,
Not yet.' Outside still lay the dazzling snow.
Was it a voice indeed, or but a dream?
Hush! hark! No, now, 'tis but the vulture's scream.
