Around Probstheida still the conflict rolls Under Napoleon's eye surpassingly. Like sedge before the scythe the sections fall And bayonets slant and reek. Each cannon-blaze Makes the air thick with human limbs; while keen Contests rage hand to hand. Throats shout “advance,” And forms walm, wallow, and slack suddenly. Hot ordnance split and shiver and rebound, And firelocks fouled and flintless overstrew the ground. SEMICHORUS II At length the Allies, daring tumultuously, Find them inside Probstheida. There is fixed Napoleon's cardinal and centre hold. But need to loose it grows his gloomy fear As night begins to brown and treacherous mists appear. CHORUS Then, on the three fronts of this reaching field, A furious, far, and final cannonade Burns from two thousand mouths and shakes the plain, And hastens the sure end! Towards the west Bertrand keeps open the retreating-way, Along which wambling waggons since the noon Have crept in closening file. Dusk draws around; The marching remnants drowse amid their talk, And worn and harrowed horses slumber as the walk. [In the darkness of the distance spread cries from the maimed animals and the wounded men. Multitudes of the latter contrive to crawl into the city, until the streets are full of them. Their voices are heard calling.] SECOND CITIZEN They cry for water! Let us go down, And do what mercy may. [Exeunt citizens from the tower.] SPIRIT OF THE PITIES A fire is lit Near to the Thonberg wind-wheel. Can it be Napoleon tarries yet? Let us go see. [The distant firelight becomes clearer and closer.] SCENE IV THE SAME. AT THE THONBERG WINDMILL [By the newly lighted fire NAPOLEON is seen walking up and down, much agitated and worn. With him are MURAT, BERTHIER, AUGEREAU, VICTOR, and other marshals of corps that have been engaged in this part of the field--all perspiring, muddy, and fatigued.] NAPOLEON Baseness so gross I had not guessed of them!-- The thirty thousand false Bavarians I looked on losing not unplacidly; But these troth-swearing sober Saxonry I reckoned staunch by virtue of their king! Thirty-five thousand and gone! It magnifies A failure into a catastrophe.... Murat, we must retreat precipitately, And not as hope had dreamed! Begin it then This very hour.--Berthier, write out the orders.-- Let me sit down. [A chair is brought out from the mill. NAPOLEON sinks into it, and BERTHIER, stooping over the fire, begins writing to the Emperor's dictation, the marshals looking with gloomy faces at the flaming logs. NAPOLEON has hardly dictated a line when he stops short. BERTHIER turns round and finds that he has dropt asleep.] MURAT [sullenly]