The right-hand vapor broader grew; It rose, and joined itself unto The main cloud with a sudden dash. Loud and more near the cannon's crash Came toward me, and I heard a sound As if all hell had broken bound-- A cry of agony and fear. Still the dark vapor rolled more near, Till at my very feet it tossed, The vanward fragments of our host. Can man, Thy image, sink so low, Thou, who hast bent Thy tinted bow Across the storm and raging main; Whose laws both loosen and restrain The powers of earth, without whose will No sparrow's little life is still? Was fear of hell, or want of faith, Or the brute's common dread of death The passion that began a chase, Whose goal was ruin and disgrace? What tongue the fearful sight may tell? What horrid nightmare ever fell Upon the restless sleep of crime-- What history of another time-- What dismal vision, darkly seen By the stern-featured Florentine, Can give a hint to dimly draw The likeness of the scene I saw? I saw, yet saw not. In that sea, That chaos of humanity, No more the eye could catch and keep A single point, than on the deep The eye may mark a single wave, Where hurrying myriads leap and rave. Men of all arms, and all costumes, Bare-headed, decked with broken plumes; Soldiers and officers, and those Who wore but civil-suited clothes; On foot or mounted--some bestrode Steeds severed from their harnessed load; Wild mobs of white-topped wagons, cars, Of wounded, red with bleeding scars; The whole grim panoply of war Surged on me with a deafening roar! All shades of fear, disfiguring man, Glared through their faces' brazen tan. Not one a moment paused, or stood To see what enemy pursued. With shrieks of fear, and yells of pain, With every muscle on the strain, Onward the struggling masses bore. Oh! had the foemen lain before, They'd trampled them to dust and gore, And swept their lines and batteries As autumn sweeps the windy trees! Here one cast forth his wounded friend, And with his sword or musket-end Urged on the horses; there one trod Upon the likeness of his God, As if 'twere dust; a coward here Grew valiant with his very fear, And struck his weaker comrade prone, And struggled to the front alone. All had one purpose, one sole aim, That mocked the decency of shame,-- To fly, by any means to fly; They cared not how, they asked not why. I found a voice. My burning blood Flamed up. Upon a mound I stood; I could no more restrain my voice Than could the prophet of God's choice. "Back, animated dirt!" I cried, "Back, on your wretched lives, and hide Your shame beneath your native clay! Or if the foe affrights you, slay Your own base selves; and, dying, leave Your children's tearful cheeks to grieve,