Poems (Trask)/The Sentinel
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IN TIME OF WAR.
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!"
Art thinking of the coming morn,
When blood-red shall the banners glow,
And on the tented field without
The 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?
When blood-red shall the banners glow,
And on the tented field without
The 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 it
When 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 turned
Toward the Northern sky afar.
Fear! should a soldier know the word?
Come life or death, what matters it
When 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 turned
Toward the Northern sky afar.
He answers not. Wherefore's the need?
He thinks not of the battle's din,
Nor of the gloomy, bristling walls
That shut the grim old fortress in:
He knows whose orchard-trees are white
With wildest wealth of rosy snow;
He knows the red-lipped May has kissed
The clover-blossoms into glow.
He thinks not of the battle's din,
Nor of the gloomy, bristling walls
That shut the grim old fortress in:
He knows whose orchard-trees are white
With wildest wealth of rosy snow;
He knows the red-lipped May has kissed
The clover-blossoms into glow.
He sees the low, brown cottage-house,
Half hidden 'neath the sheltering trees,
That gray and mossy lift with pride
The peerless growth of centuries;
His eyes are moist, ' tis not the mist
That rises from the wave-washed shore;
'Tis a grand weakness, yielded to
For those he may see never more!
Half hidden 'neath the sheltering trees,
That gray and mossy lift with pride
The peerless growth of centuries;
His eyes are moist, ' tis not the mist
That rises from the wave-washed shore;
'Tis a grand weakness, yielded to
For those he may see never more!
Soldier! it is a thrilling sight
To see the brave man when he weeps
At thought of those whose memories
Fore'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!
To see the brave man when he weeps
At thought of those whose memories
Fore'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!