Camp

I have been led by solitary care To yon dark branches, spreading o'er the brook, Which murmurs thro' the camp; this mighty camp, Where once two hundred thousand sons of war, With restless dins awak'd the midnight hour. Now horrid stillness in the vacant tents Sits undisturb'd; and these incessant rills, Whose pebbled channel breaks their shallow stream, Fill with their melancholy sounds my ears As if I wander'd like a lonely hind, O'er some dead fallow, far from all resort: Unless that ever and anon a groan Bursts from a soldier, pillow'd on his shield In torment, or expiring with his wounds, And turns my fix'd attention into horror.