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50 When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand

In the lonely Capitol. On each hand

Far stretched the portico, dim and grand

Its columns ranged like a martial band

Of sheeted spectres, whom some command

Had called to a last reviewing;

And the streets of the city were white and bare,

No footfall echoed across the square,

But out of the misty midnight air

I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,

And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear

The sound of a far tattooing.

Then I held my breath with fear and dread,

For into the square, with a brazen tread,

There rode a figure whose stately head

O'erlooked the review that morning,

That never bowed from its firm-set seat

When the living column passed its feet,

Yet now rode steadily up the street

To the phantom bugle's warning;