Classic Poem

The noise of trampling, the wind of trumpets, smote the palace walls with a blast,
Pale and cold sat the King in midst of his peers, and his noble heart sunk, and his pulses
Suspended their motion; a darkness crept over his eyelids, and chill cold sweat
Sat round his brows faded in faint death; his peers pale, like mountains of the dead
Cover'd with dews of night, groaning, shaking forests and floods. The cold newt,
And snake, and damp toad on the kingly foot crawl, or croak on the awful knee,
Shedding their slime; in folds of the robe the crown'd adder builds and hisses
From stony brows; shaken the forests of France, sick the kings of nations,
And the bottoms of the world were open'd, and the graves of arch-angels unseal'd:
The enormous dead lift up their pale fires and look over the rocky cliffs.
A faint heat from their fires reviv'd the cold Louvre; the frozen blood reflow'd.
Awful up rose the king; him the peers follow'd; they saw the courts of the Palace
Forsaken, and Paris without a soldier, silent; for the noise was gone up
And follow'd the army, and the Senate in peace sat beneath morning's beam.