Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/146

Rh At a respectful distance keep the forts A multitude, a populace of monstrous guns, That, in the far horizon, wolf-like prowl. Bivouac, and tomb, and prison, Paris now is all. Upright and straight before the universe That has become a solitude, she stands A sentinel, and surprised with weariness From over-watching, slumbers; all is still. Men, women, children, sobs passionate, bursts Of triumphant laughter, cars, footsteps, quays, Squares, crossways, and the river's sandy banks, The thousand roofs whence issue murmurs low, The murmurs of our dreams, the hope that says I trust and I believe, the hunger, that I die, The dark despair that knows not what it says, All, all keep silence. O thou mighty crowd! O noises indistinct and vague! O sleep, Of all a word! And O great glorious dreams, Unfathomable, that ever one and all Mock our frail wisdom, now are ye submerged In one vast ocean of oblivion deep. But they are there, formidable and grand, Eternally on watch.On a sudden springThe people, startled, breathless, doleful, awed, And bend to listen. What is it they hear? A subterraneous roar, a voice profound As from a mountain's bowels. All the town Listens intent, and all the country round Awakes. And hark! to the first rumbling sound Succeeds a second, hollow, sullen, fierce, And in the darkness other noises crash, And echo follows echo flying far! A hundred voices terrible through night,