XV.

Hark to the muffled tread, where stealing slow Adown the trenches musters their array, While rank on rank in many a bristling row Is gathering stern as dimly grows the day, Nor from yon level sun a beam can stray! The army’s hum, the awakening city’s din, The dusky masses gilded by no ray, But dim with curling vapours, ere begin The cannon’s roar, make each more doubtful who shall win.