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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;