They are the watch-dogs, terrible, superb,
Enormous, faithfully that Paris guard.
As at each moment we could be surprised,
As a wild horde is there, as ambush vile
Creeps sometimes even to the city walls,
Nineteen in number, scattered on the mounts
They watch,—unquiet, menacing, sublime,
Over dark spaces limitless, at eve,
And as the night advances, warn, inform,
And one another aid, far stretching out
Their necks of bronze around the walls immense.
They rest awake, while peacefully we sleep,
And in their hoarse lungs latent thunders growl
Low premonitions. Sometimes from the hills,
Sharply and suddenly bestrewed with stars,
A lightning darts athwart the sombre night
Over the valleys; then the heavy veil
Of twilight thick, or utter darkness, falls
Upon us, masking in its silence deep
A treacherous snare, and in its peace, a camp;
Like a huge crawling serpent round us winds
The enemy, and enlaces us in coils
Inveterate, interminable, but in vain.
