On a rugged plateau,
Forty miles from headquarters of Marshal Bugeaud,
Lay an outpost, besieged by the merciless foe.
Day by day close and closer the Arab lines drew
Round the hard‐beset French.
To dash out and flash through,
Like a wind‐driven flame, they would dare, though a host
Hot from Hades stood there. But abandon the post?
Nay, they dare not do that; they were soldiers of France,
And dishonor should stain neither sabre nor lance;
They could bravely meet death, though like Hydra it came
Horror‐headed and dire, but no shadow of shame
For a trust left to perish when danger drew nigh
Should e’er dim the flag waving free to the sky.
But soon came a terror more dread to the soul
Than war’s wild thunder‐crash when its battle‐clouds roll,
And the heavens are shrouded from light, while a glare,
As of hell, breaks in hot, lurid streams on the air!
It was Famine, grim‐visaged and gaunt,
To the camp most appalling of foes—
Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure
As the swift headsman’s deadliest blows.
O’er the ramparts it sullenly strode,
Glided darkly by tent and by wall,
Spreading awe wheresoever it went,
And the gloom of dismay over all;
Blighting valor that ne’er in war’s red front had quailed,
Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife e’er had paled.