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432 The beach is cut by the razory ice-wind—the wreck-guns
 * sound,

The tempest lulls—the moon comes floundering
 * through the drifts.

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.

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

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.

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.

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,