XXXVIII.

Still roars the thunder-storm--Day wears the gloom Of Night’s black canopy, and wears it well. That pall o’erspreads more horrors than the tomb; Beneath its folds are done the deeds of Hell! And chiefs who seek the demon strife to quell Are slaughtered by their men. Drunk volunteers, Mad soldiers, vile camp-followers, knaves who swell The array of War, and know nor shame nor fears, A plundering pathway hew thro’ havoc, blood, and tears.