As the slumbering craters wake,
And the neighboring foot hills shake,
As in shotted flame they break
Athwart the sky:
As the swollen streams of Spring
Meet their river wing and wing,
Till it sweeps a monstrous thing
Where cities die:
With a cold sardonic smile,
At a range of half a mile,
I--I lop them off in style
By six and eights:
As they come--their Country’s best--
Like a roaring, seething crest,
And I knock them Galley West
Where Glory Waits.