The wild rain drives in gusty showers, 

 And past the moon the storm-clouds fly. 

 The river, rising, hurries by 



The gray i old city of fair towers? 



The bayonets gleam in all her streets : 

 All 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 



