 | The lion's cub |  |
IN THE SNOW.
Not as in this winter's snow,Where, while lost therein, I see
No one out of doors but me;
No one in the buried street,
Nor in the cold blast of the sleet;
But five-and-twenty years ago,
When beneath a hostile star,
The whole land was wrapt in war
(Naught to hope, but much to fear),
When these long embankments here
Were projected, not in white
But in great earth-works of red clay,
Low in the morning, high at night,
79
Where the distant bugles seem to blow
Back to that burning August day!
| The lion's cub | |