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 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.