IN FRENCH FIELDS.
205
That from the wound fell down upon the stones
Gave birth, in falling, to battalions armed,
More close than on the furrows serried corn,
More numerous than the desert's endless sands,
And all the combatants had an air superb,
And carried for their ensigns, not the rods
Knotted together, but tall brazen pikes
Surmounted with an eagle each of gold,
That menaced South and East and West and North.
At last I starting woke and sat upright,
Full of my frightful dream—so full indeed,
That I believed I felt within my heart
The sharp cold of the glave, deep-buried still.
