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 spring's 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.
   
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 tall old chestnut trees,
My silent marches I resume,
   And think of 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 often 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 my woe.
   
So rose the dream — so passed the night —
   When, distant in the darksome glen,
Approaching up the sombre height
   I heard the solid march of men;
Till over stubble, over sward,
   And fields where lay the golden sheaf,
I saw 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 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
   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.