| |
| ALAS! the weary hours pass slow, | |
| The night is very dark and still, | |
| And in the marshes far below | |
| I hear the bearded whippoorwill. | |
| I scarce can see a yard ahead; | 5 |
| My ears are strained to catch each sound; | |
| I hear the leaves about me shed, | |
| And the spring’s bubbling through the ground. | |
| |
| Along the beaten path I pace, | |
| Where white rags mark my sentry’s track; | 10 |
| In formless shrubs I seem to trace | |
| The foeman’s form, with bending back; | |
| I think I see him crouching low— | |
| I stop and list—I stoop and peer, | |
| Until the neighboring hillocks grow | 15 |
| To groups of soldiers far and near. | |
| |
| With ready piece I wait and watch, | |
| Until my eyes, familiar grown, | |
| Detect each harmless earthen notch, | |
| And turn guerrillas into stone; | 20 |
| And then amid the lonely gloom, | |
| Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, | |
| My silent marches I resume, | |
| And think of other times than these. | |
| |
| “Halt! who goes there?” my challenge cry, | 25 |
| It rings along the watchful line; | |
| “Relief!” I hear a voice reply— | |
| “Advance, and give the countersign!” | |
| With bayonet at the charge I wait— | |
| The corporal gives the mystic spell; | 30 |
| With arms aport I charge my mate, | |
| Then onward pass, and all is well. | |
| |
| But in the tent that night awake, | |
| I ask, if in the fray I fall, | |
| Can I the mystic answer make, | 35 |
| When the angelic sentries call? | |
| And pray that Heaven may so ordain, | |
| Where’er I go, what fate be mine, | |
| Whether in pleasure or in pain, | |
| I still may have the countersign. | 40 |
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