XVIII.

And words are few and brief. It seemeth waste Of breath in idle converse to dilate, When hundreds momently to Judgment haste;-- And sight usurps all functions! Mouths of Fate Prophetic line the wall, where batteries wait The onset, slowly turned the breach to flank, And bayonets bristle ’neath the parapet, _For them_ prepared! The heart’s of interest blank, That hath not waited thus in Battle’s foremost rank.