Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/70

IN WAR TIME 3

Camps of the cavalry, apart,

Are pitched with nicest art

On hilly suburbs where old forests grow.

Here, by itself, one glimmers through the pines,—

One whose high-hearted chief we know:

A thousand men leap when his bugles blow;

A thousand horses curvet at his lines,

Pawing the turf; among them come and go

The jacketed troopers, changed by wind and rain,

Storm, raid, and skirmish, sunshine, midnight dew,

To bronzèd men who never ride in vain.

4

In the great wall-tent at the head of the square,

The Colonel hangs his sword, and there

Huge logs burn high in front at the close of the day;

And the captains gather ere the long tattoo,

While the banded buglers play;

Then come the tales of home and the troopers' song.

Clear over the distant outposts float the notes,

And the lone vidette to catch them listens long;

And the officer of the guard, upon his round,

Pauses, to hear the sound

Of the chiming chorus poured from a score of throats:

5

CAVALRY SONG

Our good steeds snuff the evening air,

Our pulses with their purpose tingle;

The foeman's fires are twinkling there;

He leaps to hear our sabres jingle!

!

Each carbine sends its whizzing ball:

Now, cling! clang! forward all,

Into the fight!

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