One moment—and all sight is vain,—
Reddens the sky with fiery rain,—
Closes the smoke-cloud round the plain—
Fit cloak for Death to throw:
As mid the Alpines thunders sweep,
Waking the mountains from their sleep—
So comes the tumult, stern and deep,
From the dread strife below.
—'Tis moonlight on the quiet field
Where sabre flashed and musket pealed;
Where was the fate of thousands sealed,
'Tis calm as a child's rest:
But ill suits earth with such a sky—
One with its soft, sweet stars on high,
While dead and dying thousands lie
Upon the other's breast.
And there they lie—the true, the brave,
The morning's pride, like a spent wave;
And has not Glory even a grave,
For those who for her died?
No; there they lie—the young, the old,
The steel cap by the helm of gold,
The steed upon its rider rolled,
Friend and foe, side by side.
Enough of this—across the sea,
To know what triumph there may be
Where Glory joins Festivity,
Rejoicing in its fame:
There's feasting spread in gorgeous halls,
The lamps flash round the city walls,
And many a flood of lustre falls
O'er many an honoured name.
Turn thou from this, and enter where
Some mother weeps o'er her despair,
Some desolate bride rends her rich hair,
Some orphan joins the cry!
Then back again to the death plain,
Where lie those whom they weep in vain,
And ask, in gazing on the slain,
What art thou, Victory?
IOLE.
