Down by the village runs the stream

Once placid, now a raging flood:

Behold it, by the day's last gleam

Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood.

The Chapel bell has tolled its last;

The trees are bare, tho this be Spring:

Death's shroud is on the village cast,

And Ruin reigns o'er everything.

A grist of carnage clogs the Mill,

And shells have razed the quondam homes:

Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill,

Whose cellars are but catacombs.

Beyond the village, Refugees

Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief,

Or, gassed, implore on bended knees

For death, despairing of relief.

With bayonets and faces set

The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led,

Present a gruesome parapet,—

Thus, still defending, tho they're dead.