THE OUTPOST.
The lurid sunset's slanting rays
Incarnadine the soldier's deed;
His rugged countenance betrays
The bulldog breed.
Not his to shun the stubborn fight,
The combat against heavy odds,
Alone, unaided—'tis a sight
For men and gods!
And now his back is bowed and bent,
Now crouching, now erect, he stands,
And now the red life blood is sprent
From both his hands.
He takes his punishment on trust,
As one who sees and yet is blind,
For every lacerating thrust
Comes from behind.
The twilight creeps, the sun has gone,
But triumph fills the soldier's breast;
He's sewn his back brace-buttons on
While fully dressed!