Classic Poem

Two hundred strong they pour'd into the field,
A gentle host, for one brief night's repose
Before the market, for their doom was seal'd;
They left their pasture ere the morn arose.
I listen'd, while that multitudinous sound
Peal'd from the highway through the twilight air,
A cry for light, while all was dark around,
A throng of voices like a people's prayer;
Slow broke the dawn; the flock went plodding on
Into the distance, some at once to bleed,
Some to be scatter'd wide on moor and mead.
But while I sigh'd to think that all were gone,
A little lark, their field-mate of the night,
Saw them from heaven and sang them out of sight.