Page:Poems Jones.djvu/89

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;