VI.
And still they seem before me—still my heart
Hears their loud wail as when they fled from view!
What though the boding dawn, the silent mart,
The death-like desolation spreading through
The haunts of men—what though such scenes renew
Their dreariness, and move before mine eyes!
My soul but sees, while tears my cheeks bedew,
That vast and moaning throng, whose piteous cries,
Through all the cheerless day, went echoing to the skies.
VII.
What first, what last of grief I heard or saw,
I know not; for like waves resounding came
The mingling vision. Numbed as with an awe
Transforming to one image all its dream
Of earthquake, plague, or devastating flame—
I seemed, where’er I turned my glance, to trace
The same—yet thousands—and yet still the same,
Woe-smitten father with uplifted face,
Pleading for a dear child that wept in his embrace.
VIII.
On us, O Death, they cried! on us be cast
The hideous doom—on us thy horrors bring,
With all thy throes of anguish, all thou hast;
And from our suffering hearts with torture wring
The life-blood drop by drop—and we will cling
To thy cold hand, as to a friend’s, O Death,
If thou our children spare, and o’er them wing
Thy way, like twilight o’er fair flowers beneath,
Whose petals gently fall, chilled by the evening’s breath.
