At last the slow black line was check'd, An instant only; now again It moved, it falter'd now, and now It settled in its sandy bed, And steeds stood rooted to the plain. Then all stood still, and men somehow Look'd down and with averted head; Look'd down, nor dared look up, nor reck'd Of any thing, of ill or good, But bowed and stricken still they stood. Like some brave band that dared the fierce And bristled steel of gather'd host, These daring men had dared to pierce This awful vastness, dead and gray. And now at last brought well at bay They stood,--but each stood to his post; Each man an unencompassed host. Then one dismounted, waved a hand, 'Twas Morgan's stern and still command. There fell a clash, like loosen'd chain, And men dismounting loosed the rein. Then every steed stood loosed and free; And some stepp'd slow and mute aside, And some sank to the sands and died, And some stood still as shadows be, And men stood gazing silently. XXIX. Old Morgan turn'd and raised his hand, And laid it level with his eyes, And look'd far back along the land. He saw a dark dust still uprise, Still surely tend to where he lay. He did not curse, he did not say, He did not even look surprise, But silent turned to her his eyes. Nay, he was over-gentle now, He wiped a time his Titan brow, Then sought dark Ina in her place, Put out his arms, put down his face And look'd in hers. She reach'd her hands, She lean'd, she fell upon his breast; He reach'd his arms around; she lay As lies a bird in leafy nest. And he look'd out across the sands, And then his face fell down, he smiled, And softly said, "My child, my child!" Then bent his head and strode away. And as he strode he turn'd his head, He sidewise cast his brief commands; He led right on across the sands. They rose and follow'd where he led. XXX. 'Twas so like night, the sun was dim, Some black men settled down to rest, But none made murmur or request. The dead were dead, and that were best; The living leaning follow'd him, In huddled heaps, half nude, and grim. The day through high mid-heaven rode Across the sky, the dim red day; Awest the warlike day-god strode With shoulder'd shield away, away. The savage, warlike day bent low, As reapers bend in gathering grain, As archer bending bends yew bow, And flush'd and fretted as in pain. Then down his shoulder slid his shield, So huge, so awful, so blood-red And batter'd as from battle-field: It settled, sunk to his left hand, Sunk down and down, it touch'd the sand, Then day along the land lay dead, Without one candle at his head. XXXI.