The wild rain drives in gusty showers. 

 And past the moon the storm-clouds fly. 

 The river, rising, hurries by 



The gray ' old city of fair towers? 



The bayonets gleam in all her streets : 

 AH hearts are anxious, homes are sad 

 Oh, when shall victory make them glad, 



And light the faces that one meets f 



O River! once so fair and clear, 

 Now dark as death thy currents flow; 

 They may be reddened who can know?- 



Before the closing of the year. 



O River ! made for my delight, 

 I see upon thy wintry flood 

 A floating corpse a streak of blood, 



And flames reflected in the night. 



October, 1870. 



17 



