At last against the conquerors of the world Nature took arms and fought. The circling storm Was deadlier than the @3mêlée@1 fierce and warm, And snow-shafts than fire-bolts against them hurled. Some sank beneath the drift and some slept curled In hollows, till the white cloud hid each form; Some staggered wildly onward arm in arm, With the tricoloured standards dank and furled. Napoleon gazed around,—and where were they, The helmets and great epaulettes of red, Whose sheen and flame through many a bloody day Had been his rapture? At his feet one dead Drummer lay stark. Then nought above, below, Save black heaven,—and the interminable snow. |