XXIII.

Now Slaughter stalks triumphantly alone, And silent is the fierce artillery’s roar; But shriek and shout and yell, cry, curse, and groan, Make music dire to rend the bosom’s core, And louder than Man’s thunder rolled before Comes Heaven’s artillery from the mountains down, Dark, stormy, terrible: leap lightnings o’er The murky cope to mark the Almighty’s frown For deeds of carnage done in that devoted town.