Part 1 / Book 4 / Act 3 — 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.

ANONYMOUS.

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