The Scout toward Aldie.

The Scout toward Aldie.

The cavalry-camp lies on the slope
  Of what was late a vernal hill,
But now like a pavement bare—­
An outpost in the perilous wilds
  Which ever are lone and still;
    But Mosby’s men are there—­
    Of Mosby best beware.

Great trees the troopers felled, and leaned
  In antlered walls about their tents;
Strict watch they kept; ’twas Hark! and Mark!
Unarmed none cared to stir abroad
  For berries beyond their forest-fence: 
    As glides in seas the shark,
    Rides Mosby through green dark.

All spake of him, but few had seen
  Except the maimed ones or the low;
Yet rumor made him every thing—­
A farmer—­woodman—­refugee—­
  The man who crossed the field but now;
    A spell about his life did cling—­
    Who to the ground shall Mosby bring?

The morning-bugles lonely play,
  Lonely the evening-bugle calls—­
Unanswered voices in the wild;
The settled hush of birds in nest
  Becharms, and all the wood enthralls: 
    Memory’s self is so beguiled
    That Mosby seems a satyr’s child.

They lived as in the Eerie Land—­
  The fire-flies showed with fairy gleam;
And yet from pine-tops one might ken
The Capitol dome—­hazy—­sublime—­
  A vision breaking on a dream: 
    So strange it was that Mosby’s men
    Should dare to prowl where the Dome was seen.

A scout toward Aldie broke the spell.—­
  The Leader lies before his tent
Gazing at heaven’s all-cheering lamp
Through blandness of a morning rare;
  His thoughts on bitter-sweets are bent: 
    His sunny bride is in the camp—­
    But Mosby—­graves are beds of damp!

The trumpet calls; he goes within;
  But none the prayer and sob may know: 
Her hero he, but bridegroom too. 
Ah, love in a tent is a queenly thing,
  And fame, be sure, refines the vow;
    But fame fond wives have lived to rue,
    And Mosby’s men fell deeds can do.

Tan-tara! tan-tara! tan-tara!
  Mounted and armed he sits a king;
For pride she smiles if now she peep—­
Elate he rides at the head of his men;
  He is young, and command is a boyish thing: 
    They file out into the forest deep—­
    Do Mosby and his rangers sleep?

The sun is gold, and the world is green,
  Opal the vapors of morning roll;
The champing horses lightly prance—­
Full of caprice, and the riders too
  Curving in many a caricole. 
    But marshaled soon, by fours advance—­
    Mosby had checked that airy dance.

By the hospital-tent the cripples stand—­
  Bandage, and crutch, and cane, and sling,
And palely eye the brave array;
The froth of the cup is gone for them
  (Caw! caw! the crows through the blueness wing);
    Yet these were late as bold, as gay;
    But Mosby—­a clip, and grass is hay.