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34.The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind—the wreck-guns
sound,
The tempest lulls—the moon comes floundering
through the drifts.

35.I look where the ship helplessly heads end on—
hear the burst as she strikes—I hear the howls
of dismay—they grow fainter and fainter.

36.I cannot aid with my wringing fingers,
I can but rush to the surf, and let it drench me and
freeze upon me.

37.I search with the crowd—not one of the company is
washed to us alive;
In the morning I help pick up the dead and lay them
in rows in a barn.

38.Now of the old war-days, the defeat at Brooklyn,
Washington stands inside the lines—he stands on the
intrenched hills, amid a crowd of officers.
His face is cold and damp—he cannot repress the
weeping drops,
He lifts the glass perpetually to his eyes—the color is
blanched from his cheeks,
He sees the slaughter of the southern braves confided
to him by their parents.

39.The same, at last and at last, when peace is declared,
He stands in the room of the old tavern—the well-
beloved soldiers all pass through,
The officers speechless and slow draw near in their
turns,