THE REVIEW OF THE VICTIMS. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. I. It was the dead midnight; No star was in the sky; The struggling moon shed a troubled light, II. And deepest silence hung, Like a garment, o'er the land; III. It rolled through the startled space— Till the martyred dead of a doomed race IV. From the sleeping city near ; From the warm and genial South ;From the sands of Egypt's deserts drear; From the Danube's stormy mouth ;— V. From the ice-realms of the North ;- VI. From the depths of Indian seas ;— From the Tyrol's hills of blue ;— From the base of the snowy Pyrenees ;— From the "deadly Waterloo:" VII. For many a far-off land, And many a wandering wave, Had heard that stern and loud command, And had yielded up its brave! VIII. The trumpet's peal is blown; Those scattered hosts combine; And the soldier-slaves of the iron crown Arise and make their sign! IX. On shadowy chargers mounted, With swords uplifted high, The' Imperial Guards draw nigh! X. A legion old and hoary, With cheeks all ghastly white; But eagles golden bright; XI. They raise their pallid brows In the wan moon's sickly glare; * XII. With folded arms he stands, As they pass him in review; And sadly he looks on those gallant bands, As he thinks on Waterloo ! The idea of the Spectre Drummer, is borrowed from a French Poem by Messrs. Barthelmy and Mery. This and the four succeeding stanzas are little more than a paraphrase. XIII. Still the drummer by his side, Plies his bleached and fleshless arm; Till surging on like the ocean tide, Those grisly phantoms swarm. XIV. They shout no vivas now For the chieftain once so dear; But curses deep, though murmured low, Alone salute his ear. XV. They clench their bony hands, As they wheel beneath his sight; Where with folded arms, absorbed, he stands On Montmartre's frowning height. XVI. Ha! whence that phantom throng, XVII. From Jaffa's burning plain, That shadowy host hath wended; In cool and savage triumph slain, When the battle strife was ended! XVIII. He shuts his conscious eyes Their shrinking sense to save; But a darker scene within them lies 'T is the gallant D'Enghein's grave! XIX. The torches glare around, Where the dauntless Bourbon kneels; In the castle fosse, on the damp chill ground, As the murderous volley peals! XX. And the muffled drum tolls out The youthful hero's knell :- And the roll of the deep reveil! XXI. Myriads before him spread, Their standards rear on high; But the flags are white as the charnelled dead, For the grave hath the victory! XXII. He strains his glance to look Beyond that grisly train; What doth he see but a barren rock, A vulture, and a chain! |