Page:Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War.djvu/196

188 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.