enemy enter. 
  But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices
  Talk, though you don’t believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;
  And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.—­
  This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle.

  VI.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Victory!  Victory!—­Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,
  Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together;
  Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished,
    and so forth. 
  Victory!  Victory!  Victory!—­Ah, but it is, believe me,
  Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr
  Than to indite any paean of any victory.  Death may
  Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion,
  While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over,
  Why, it is over.  The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven,
  Of a sweet savor, no doubt, to somebody; but on the altar,
  Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odor.

  So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles, that swelled with
  Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,
  Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col-
  Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers
  Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory.  Well, but
  I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten.

  VII.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  So I have seen a man killed!  An experience that, among others! 
  Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,
  And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it. 
  But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw
  Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.

  I was returning home from St. Peter’s; Murray, as usual,
  Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and
  Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when
  Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter’s, I became conscious
  Of a sensation of movement opposing me,—­tendency this way
  (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is
  Coming and not yet come,—­a sort of poise and retention);
  So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers
  Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner. 
  Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,
  Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,
  Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the
  Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is
  Here at my side.  In the middle they drag at something.  What is it? 
  Ha! bare swords in the air, held up!  There seem to be voices
  Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are
  Many, and bare in the air,—­in the air!  They descend!  They are smiting,
  Hewing, chopping!  At what?  In the air once more upstretched!  And
  Is it blood that’s on them?  Yes, certainly blood!  Of whom, then? 
  Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?