She smoothed a startled look, and sought,

From treasuries of the adoring slave,

Her surest way to strangle thought;

Picturing her dread lord decree advance

Into the enemy's land; artillery, bayonet, lance;

His ordering fingers point the dial's to time their ranks:

Himself the black storm-cloud, the tempest's bayonet-glaive.

Like foam-heads of a loosened freshet bursting banks,