THE WOLF. 63 
And ere the day come o’er the hill, 
The wolves are gone, the place is still, 
And to none that dreadful death is known, 
Save to some ermine hunter lone, 
Who in that death foresees his own! 
Or think thee now of a battle field, 
Where lie the wounded with the killed ; 
Hundreds of mangled men they lie; 
A horrible mass of agony! 
The night comes down,—and in they bound, 
The ravening wolves from the mountains round. 
All day long have they come from far, 
Snuffing that bloody field of war; 
But the rolling drum, and the trumpet’s bray, 
And the strife of men through the livelong 
day, 
For a while kept the prowling wolves away; 
But now when the roaring tumults cease, 
In that dreadful hush, which is not peace, 
The wolves rush in to have their will, 
And to lap of living blood their fill. 
Stark and stiff the dead men lie, 
But the living,—Oh, woe, to hear their cry, 
