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THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE.
83
But how could I suffer Death's herald to find thee, Alone, unconsoled, and I—tending my flowers!
How hushed is the camp-ground! the moonlight is waxing More cruelly white and more deathly serene;From far comes the cry of the whip-poor-will, taxing The sense with a dulcitude, fearfully keen.
In the shadow anear me the sentinel paces; The lightning-rent oak looms, in silence, above;Wherever I turn gleam prophetic, wan faces; That Banshee—or bird—chants the death-song of love.
Hist! the guard, at my right, stands to challenge the straying That hasten with tidings concerning the strife;They whisper! God! what are they saying? Since noon he is missing—small chance of his life.
"They saw him, when on to the charge he was rushing: With valor superb he led forward his men;
