t mock'd but now his homeward tears;
And ever and anon he rears
His legs and knees with all their strength,
And then as strongly thrusts at length.
Rais'd, or stretch'd, he cannot bear
The wound that girds him, weltering there:
And "Water!" he cries, with moonward stare.

["I will not read it!" with a start,
Burning cries some honest heart;
"I will not read it! Why endure
Pangs which horror cannot cure?
Why--Oh why? and rob the brave
And the bereav'd of all they crave,
A little hope to gild the grave?"

Ask'st thou why, thou honest heart?
'Tis _because_ thou dost ask, and because thou dost start.
'Tis because thine own praise and fond outward thought
Have aided the shews which this sorrow have wrought.]

A wound unutterable--Oh God!
Mingles his being with the sod.

["I'll read no more."--Thou must, thou must:
In thine own pang doth wisdom trust.]

His nails are in earth, his eyes in air,
And "Water!" he crieth--he may not forbear.
Brave and good was he, yet now he dreams
The moon looks cruel; and he blasphemes.

["No more! no more!" Nay, this is but one;
Were the whole tale told, it would not be done
From wonderful setting to rising sun.
But God's good time is at hand--be calm,
Thou reader! and steep thee in all thy balm
Of tears or patience, of thought or good will,
For the field--the field awaiteth us still.]

"Water! water!" all over the field:
To nothing but Death will that wound-voice yield.
One, as he crieth, is sitting half bent;
What holds he so close?--his body is rent.
Another is mouthless, with eyes on cheek;
Unto the raven he may not speak.
One would fain kill him; and one half round
The place where he writhes, hath up beaten the ground.
Like a mad horse hath he beaten the ground,
And the feathers and music that litter it round,
The gore, and the mud, and the golden sound.
Come hither, ye cities! ye ball-rooms, take breath!
See what a floor hath the dance of death!

The floor is alive, though the lights are out;
W