 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
78
THE COUNTERSIGN.
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,
My ears are strained to catch each sound;
I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the springs bubbling through the ground.
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,
My ears are strained to catch each sound;
I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the springs bubbling through the ground.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rags mark my sentry's track;
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
To groups of soldiers far and near.
Where white rags mark my sentry's track;
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
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 guerillas into stone.
And then amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the weird old tulip-trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think on other times than these.
Until my eyes, familiar grown,
Detect each harmless earthen notch,
And turn guerillas into stone.
And then amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the weird old tulip-trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think on other times than these.
Sweet visions through the silent night!
The deep bay-windows fringed with vine,
The room within, in softened light,
The tender, milk-white hand in mine;
The timid pressure, and the pause
That ofttimes overcame our speech,—
That time when by mysterious laws
We each felt all in all to each.
The deep bay-windows fringed with vine,
79
The tender, milk-white hand in mine;
The timid pressure, and the pause
That ofttimes overcame our speech,—
That time when by mysterious laws
We each felt all in all to each.
And then that bitter, bitter day,
When came the final hour to part,
When, clad in soldier's honest gray,
I pressed her weeping to my heart.
Too proud of me to bid me stay,
Too fond of me to let me go,—
I had to tear myself away,
And left her stolid in her woe.
When came the final hour to part,
When, clad in soldier's honest gray,
I pressed her weeping to my heart.
Too proud of me to bid me stay,
Too fond of me to let me go,—
I had to tear myself away,
And left her stolid in her woe.
So comes the dream—so fleets the night—
When distant in the darksome glen,
Approaching up the sombre height,
I hear the solid march of men;
Till over stubble, over sward,
And fields where gleams the golden sheaf,
I see the lantern of the guard
Advancing with the night relief.
When distant in the darksome glen,
Approaching up the sombre height,
I hear the solid march of men;
Till over stubble, over sward,
And fields where gleams the golden sheaf,
I see the lantern of the guard
Advancing with the night relief.
“Halt! who goes there?” my challenge cry:
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;
With arms at port I charge my mate,
And onward pass, and all is well.
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;
With arms at port I charge my mate,
And onward pass, and all is well.
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But in the tent that night awake,
I think, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make
When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that heaven may so ordain,
That when I near the camp divine,
Whate'er my travail or my pain,
I yet may have the countersign.
I think, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make
When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that heaven may so ordain,
That when I near the camp divine,
Whate'er my travail or my pain,
I yet may have the countersign.
Camp Cameron, July, 1861.
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |