THE COUNTERSIGN.

Alas! the rolling hours pass slow— The night is very dark and still— And in the marshes, far below, Is heard the lonely whippoorwill: I scarce can see a foot ahead— My ears are strained to catch each sound— I feel the leaves beneath me spread— And the springs bubbling thro’ the ground. Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rays mark my sentry’s track; In formless things I seem to trace The foeman’s form, with bended back— I think I see him crouching low! I stop and list—I stop and peer— Until the neighb’ring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers, far and near. With ready piece I wait, and watch, Until my eyes—familiar grown— Detect each harmless earthern notch, And turn “Guerrillas” into stone; And then amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall magnolia 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 word— With “arms aport” I change my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well! But in my 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 so ordain, Where’er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain I still may have the “Countersign!”