LXXX.
Doth the blast rise?—the clouded East is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
The soft and smother'd step, of those, that fear
Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-ton'd and mingled sound;
A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sear,
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
LXXXI.
Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore ascending
In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
Thro' tower and wall, a path for their array?
Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey,
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply!
And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway,
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
