I

Never wound cortège more exceeding slow, Nor mourners to more melancholy tones, Than that wan wending, musicked by the moans Of wounded men, whom pity bade us show That much of tenderness. Nor friend nor foe Spoke in the heavy language of these groans, But stark mankind, whose utter anguish owns A common nature, in a common woe. Full many a mile of weary footing sore, By miry side tracks, not unkindly led; And each unwounded man his burden bore On stretcher or in blanket, ransacked bed, Duck-board uprooted, hand-cart, unhinged door. We left behind the dying and the dead.

RASTATT, 2nd May