168
A SHEAF GLEANED
No more repose or sleep! 'Mid sword and brand,
To sweep still on—her work! Her iron heel
Trampled on human bodies as on sand,
Till blood rose almost to her curb of steel.
For fifteen years the nations felt her ire:
Prostrate they lay beneath her headlong tread;
It was an Apocalyptic vision dire,
The steed and rider and the myriads dead.
