Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/On Guard

On Guard.

At midnight, on my lonely beat, When shadow wraps the wood and lea,A vision seems my view to greet Of one at home that prays for me.

No roses bloom upon her cheek— Her form is not a lover's dream—But on her face, so fair and meek, A host of holier beauties gleam.

For softly shines her silver hair, A patient smile is on her face,And the mild, lustrous light of prayer, Around her sheds a moon-like grace.

She prays for one that's far away, The soldier in his holy fight—And begs that Heaven in mercy may Protect her boy and bless the Right.

Till, though the leagues lie far between, This silent incense of her heartSteals o'er my soul with breath serene, And we no longer are apart.

So guarding thus my lonely beat, By shadowy wood and haunted lea,That vision seems my view to greet, Of her at home who prays for me.