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 on
Through tropic heat, and moonless air,
The slow night passes, and the morn
Breaks up the east with lurid glare.
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 on
Through tropic heat, and moonless air,
The slow night passes, and the morn
Breaks up the east with lurid glare.
The faint breath of the languid South,
So sweet it must have wandered through
The 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.
So sweet it must have wandered through
The 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!"
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!"
(113)
