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.