Sallie May and The Sentinel’s Dream of Home/The Sentinel’s Dream of Home
The Sentinel’s Dream of Home.
By Col. A. M. Hobby, C. S. A.
’Tis dead of night, nor voice nor sound
Breaks on the stillness of the air,
The waning moon goes coldly down
On frozen fields and forests bare.
The solemn stars are glittering high,
While here my lonely watch I keep,
To guard the brave with anxious eye,
Who sweetly dream and soundly sleep.
Perchance of home these sleepers dream,
Of sainted ones no longer here,
Whose mystic forms low bend unseen,
And breathe soft whispers in their ear.
Sleep on, sleep on, my comrades brave,
Quaff deep to-night of pleasure’s cup,
Ere morning’s crimson banners wave,
And “reveille“ shall rouse them up.
The sportive winds and waves to-night
Seem tired of their boist’rous play,
And armed ships, with signal lights
And bristling guns, before me lay.
But not of ships nor battle fields,
With clash of arms and roll of drums—
To softer scenes my spirit yields—
To-night a sweeter vision comes
It is thine own beloved one
Whose kiss I feel, whose smile I see;
Oh! God protect that wife at home,
Begirt with growing infancy.
To-night, to-night, I’me with you there,
Around my knees fond children gather,
And climb, the envied kiss to share,
Amidst the sounds of “Husband,” “Father.”
Such thoughts my eyes with moisture fill,
My bosom heaves, my pulses start;
Close down I’ll press my gun, to still
The wild emotions of my heart.
Hush pleading one, I cannot stay,
The spoiler comes with fiendish wrath,
Black ruins mark his bloody way,
And blazing homes have lit his path.
“Go, husband, go! God nerve thy blows,
Their footsteps foul blot from our shore,
Strike ’till our land is free from foes
Whose hands are stained with Southern gore,
Strike, husband, strike! I’d rather weep
The widow of a patriot brave,
Than lay my heart (I’d scorn to sleep),
Beside a subjugated slave.
Thy woman’s soul is true and grand,
The battle-field my home shall be,
Until our country’ll proudly stand,
Acknowledged as a nation free;
’Till then, yes! welcome fields of strife—
The victor’s shout, the vanquish’d’s cry,
Where ebbs the crimson stream of life—
Where quick and dead together lie;
’Mid bursting shell and squadron’s dash,
Where broken ranks disorder’d fly—
Where angry cannon’s flash on flash
Paints hell upon the lurid sky;
Where many a brave shall sink to rest,
And fondly cherished hopes will set,
And blood that warms the manly breast,
Will dim the glist’ning bayonet.
When these are past, and victory’s sun
In undim’d splendor lights the skies,
And peace by dauntless valor won,
And proudly free our banner flies:
Then to my western prairie home
With eager haste each nerve shall strain,
Nor from its hallow’d precincts roam,
Unless my country calls again.
There unalloyed shall be our bliss;
We’ll watch the sun give morning birth,
And sinking, leave his parting kiss
Upon the dewy lip of earth.
******
The moon has waxed and waned away;
The Morning Star rides pale and high,
Fond dreams of home no longer stay,
But fade like stars on morning’s sky.
Galveston, Texas, February 1, 1864.