Page:Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War.djvu/116

108 It comes like the thief in the gloaming;

It comes, and none may foretell

The place of the coming—the glaring;

They live in a sleepless spell

That wizens, and withers, and whitens;

It ages the young, and the bloom

Of the maiden is ashes of roses—

The Swamp Angel broods in his gloom.

Swift is his messengers' going,

But slowly he saps their halls,

As if by delay deluding.

They move from their crumbling walls

Farther and farther away;

But the Angel sends after and after,

By night with the flame of his ray—

By night with the voice of his screaming—

Sends after them, stone by stone,

And farther walls fall, farther portals,

And weed follows weed through the Town.

Is this the proud City? the scorner

Which never would yield the ground?

Which mocked at the coal-black Angel?

The cup of despair goes round.