No summer opened them again. 
      The strong trees shuddered at his touch,
      And shook their foliage to the plain. 
    A sheaf of darts was in his clutch;
      And wheresoe’er he turned the head
      Of any dart, its power was such
    That Nature quailed with mortal dread,
      And crippling pain and foul disease
      For sorrowing leagues around him spread. 
    Whene’er he cast o’er lands and seas
      That fatal shaft, there rose a groan;
      And borne along on every breeze
    Came up the church-bell’s solemn tone,
      And cries that swept o’er open graves,
      And equal sobs from cot and throne. 
    Against the winds she tasks and braves,
      The tall ship paused, the sailors sighed,
      And something white slid in the waves. 
    One lamentation, far and wide,
      Followed behind that flying dart. 
      Things soulless and immortal died,
    As if they filled the self-same part;
      The flower, the girl, the oak, the man,
      Made the same dust from pith or heart,
    Then spoke I, calmly as one can
      Who with his purpose curbs his fear,
      And thus to both my question ran:—­
    “What two are ye who cross me here,
      Upon these desolated lands,
      Whose open fields lie waste and drear
    Beneath the tramplings of the bands
      Which two great armies send abroad,
      With swords and torches in their hands?”
    To which the bright one, as a god
      Who slowly speaks the words of fate,
      Towards his dark comrade gave a nod,
    And answered:—­“I anticipate
      The thought that is your own reply. 
      You know him, or the fear and hate
    Upon your pallid features lie. 
      Therefore I need not call him Death: 
      But answer, soldier, who am I?”
    Thereat, with all his gathered breath,
      He blew his clarion; and there came,
      From life above and life beneath,
    Pale forms of vapor and of flame,
      Dim likenesses of men who rose
      Above their fellows by a name. 
    There curved the Roman’s eagle-nose,
      The Greek’s fair brows, the Persian’s beard,
      The Punic plume, the Norman bows;
    There the Crusader’s lance was reared;
      And there, in formal coat and vest,
      Stood modern chiefs; and one appeared,
    Whose arms were folded on his breast,
      And his round forehead bowed in thought,
      Who shone supreme above the rest. 
    Again the bright one quickly caught
      His words up, as the martial line
      Before my eyes dissolved to nought:—­
    “Soldier, these heroes all are mine;
      And I am Glory!” As a tomb
      That groans on opening, “Say, were thine,”
    Cried the dark figure.  “I consume
      Thee and thy splendors utterly. 
      More names have faded in my gloom