Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling; Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came; Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly, I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name. Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe'er they move their wings, Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer, Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings. Then I heard her voice's murmur breathing summer, while my spirit Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine; Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her; Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine. Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness; Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest; Mingled tears with hers and chid her, bade her by our love consider How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master's breast. I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being, In my seeing--I, unable to protect her or defend; At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances, While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend. For I heard the firelocks ringing fiercely flinging forth the whirring, Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode; There it stood so grim and lonely, speaking of its tenants only, When the furious leaden couriers from its loopholes fastly rode. And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying, Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives; For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding-- Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives. Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed; Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring, Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best. Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his brightness On the whiteness of the snowdrifts and the ruins of the town-- On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and brown. Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early With the pearly light and glistering of the March's snowy morn; Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary, As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn.