Classic Poem

At last against the conquerors of the world
Nature took arms and fought. The circling storm
Was deadlier than the mêlee fierce and warm;
And snow-shafts than fire-bolts against them hurled.
Some sank beneath the drift and some slept curled
In hollows, till the white cloud hid each form;
Some staggered wildly onward arm in arm,
With the tricoloured standards dank and furled.

Napoleon gazed around, — and where were they,
The helmets and great epaulettes of red,
Whose sheen and flame through many a bloody day
Had been his rapture? At his feet one dead
Drummer lay stark. Then nought above, below,
Save black heaven, — and the interminable snow.