Now, see’st thou aught in this lone scene Can tell of that which late hath been?-- A stranger might reply, “The bare extent of stubble-plain Seems lately lighten’d of its grain; And yonder sable tracks remain Marks of the peasant’s ponderous wain, When harvest-home was nigh. On these broad spots of trampled ground, Perchance the rustics danced such round As Teniers loved to draw; And where the earth seems scorch’d by flame, To dress the homely feast they came, And toil’d the kerchief’d village dame Around her fire of straw.”-- V. So deem’st thou--so each mortal deems, Of that which is from that which seems:-- But other harvest here Than that which peasant’s scythe demands, Was gather’d in by sterner hands, With bayonet, blade, and spear. No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, No stinted harvest thin and cheap! Heroes before each fatal sweep Fell thick as ripen’d grain; And ere the darkening of the day, Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay The ghastly harvest of the fray, The corpses of the slain. VI. Aye, look again--that line so black And trampled, marks the bivouack, Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track, So often lost and won And close beside, the harden’d mud Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood, Dash’d the hot war-horse on. These spots of excavation tell The ravage of the bursting shell-- And feel’st thou not the tainted steam, That reeks against the sultry beam, From yonder trenched mound? The pestilential fumes declare That Carnage has replenish’d there Her garner-house profound. VII. Far other harvest-home and feast, Than claims the boor from scythe released, On these scorch’d fields were known! Death hover’d o’er the maddening rout, And, in the thrilling battle-shout, Sent for the bloody banquet out A summons of his own. Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eye Could well each destined guest espy, Well could his ear in ecstacy Distinguish every tone That fill’d the chorus of the fray-- From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray, From charging squadrons’ wild hurra, From the wild clang that mark’d their way,-- Down to the dying groan, And the last sob of life’s decay When breath was all but flown. VIII.