XXI.

Dark was the night--the horizon pitchy black, As Carlos with the pass-word reached the town, And joyous strolled, while War’s dread fire was slack, With lovely Isidor the rampart down. More deep ’neath starry pall ne’er fell Night’s frown, Nor sank repose on Nature and on man. But hark the rattling musketry, see crown Each sharp discharge its flash--ere death brief span. Homeward, poor maiden lorn, sweet Isidora ran!