The grim recruiter stormed; and bitterly
She answered: "Listen to the voice of her
Who drags before you. Once I had three sons --
Three in the Emperor's camp. A letter came
From one, and -- there was one; the others fell
In the same battle -- he alone was left,
Scarce able from the iron grasp of Death
To tear his miserable life.
Alas
My two dead boys! for ever and for aye
Death holds them. In our wretched hut remains
The last of all the men -- a little child,
Still at his mother's breast. She cannot flee,
Since her few tatters scarce suffice to clothe
Her shrunken limbs.
My years are nearly done,
My strength is well-nigh spent; yet I will go
Readily to the camping-ground. Perchance
I may be useful for some humble task,
To cook the rice or stir the morning meal."

. . . . .

Night slipped away. The clamour and the cries
Died down; but there was weeping and the sound
Of stifled moans around me.
At the break
Of dawn I hurried on my road, and left
None but an old and broken man behind.