The Countersign

Anonymous

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 guerrillas 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.

“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.