The Sentinel

Soldier, upon the bastioned wall,Treading thy solemn, measured beat,The sky of midnight o'er thy head,The broad Atlantic at thy feet.Tell me thy thoughts, as pacing onThrough tropic heat, and moonless air,The slow night passes, and the mornBreaks up the east with lurid glare.

The faint breath of the languid South,So sweet it must have wandered throughThe orange-groves of Indian lands,Or white magnolias wet with dew,Falls on thy brow with gentle touch,A soft, insidious, wildering breath,Holding in its voluptuous sweets,Perchance, the hidden pangs of death.

Tell me thy thoughts, stern sentinel!Are they of yester morning's strife?When 'mid the roar of shot and shell,And 'mid the shriek of parting life,Thy bright steel gleamed in yonder trench,As, leaping on a prostrate gun,Thy voice sent forth the rallying shout,—"Huzza! huzza! the day is won!"

Art thinking of the coming morn,When blood-red shall the banners glow,And on the tented field withoutThe deadly columns storm the foe?When 'mid the smoke, and clang of steel,And 'mid the strife of carnage dire,Thy stalwart form shall lead the van,And meet the death-hot, murderous fire?

Is't fear that blanches thy stern brow?Fear! should a soldier know the word?Come life or death, what matters itWhen the war-trump his blood has stirred?Speak, soldier! ah, thy cheek is flushed,—A tender gleam, like yon soft star,Lights up thine eye as it is turnedToward the Northern sky afar.

He answers not. Wherefore's the need?He thinks not of the battle's din,Nor of the gloomy, bristling wallsThat shut the grim old fortress in:He knows whose orchard-trees are whiteWith wildest wealth of rosy snow;He knows the red-lipped May has kissedThe clover-blossoms into glow.

He sees the low, brown cottage-house,Half hidden 'neath the sheltering trees,That gray and mossy lift with prideThe peerless growth of centuries;His eyes are moist, ' tis not the mistThat rises from the wave-washed shore;'Tis a grand weakness, yielded toFor those he may see never more!

Soldier! it is a thrilling sightTo see the brave man when he weepsAt thought of those whose memoriesFore'er within his heart he keeps!God bless thee, sentinel, to-night,While on thy lonesome, watchful beat,—The sky of midnight o'er thy head,The broad Atlantic at thy feet!