As through that dreary realm he went,
Followed a shape of dark portent:
Pard-like, of furtive eye, with brain
To treason narrowing, Aaron Burr
Moved loyal-seeming in the train
Led by the arch-conspirator.
And craven Enos[1] closed the rear,
Whose honor's flame died out in fear.
Not sooner does the dry bough burn
And into fruitless ashes turn,
Than he with whispered, false command
Flung back the hundreds in his hand,
Fled like a shade, and all forsook.
Wherever Arnold bent his look
Danger and doubt around him hung;
And pale Disaster, shrouded, flung
Black omens in his track, as though
The fingers of a future woe
Already clutched his life, to wring
Some expiation for the thing
That he was yet to do. A chill
Struck helpless many a steadfast will
Within the ranks; the very air
Rang with a thunder-toned despair;
- ↑ See Note at the end of the poem.
