Midst these perils, mark our path,
Thou who art 'the life, the way;'
Rend each fatal wile that hath
Power to lead our souls astray.
Prince of Peace! we follow Thee!
Plant thy banner in our sight;
Let thy shadowy legions be
Guards around our tents to-night."
Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim
As a cloister'd Cathedral, the notes of a hymn
Float tenderly upward,—now soft and now clear,
As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear;
Now swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,—
Now sobbing itself into sadness again.
The Bible is opened, and stillness profound
Broods over the listeners scattered around;
And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm,
Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm.
Then simply and earnestly pleading,—his face
Lit up with persuasive and eloquent grace,
The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart,
His words of entreaty and truth, ere they part.
"I see before me valiant men,
With courage high and true,
Who fight as only heroes fight,
And die, as heroes do.
Your serried ranks have never quailed
Before the battle-shock,
Whose maddest fury beats and breaks
Like foam against the rock.
Ye've borne the deadly brunt of war,
Through storm, and cold, and heat,
Yet never have ye turned your backs
Nor fled before defeat.
Behind you lie your cheerful homes,
And all of sweet or fair,—
The only remnants earth has left
Of Eden-life, are there.
Ye know that many a once bright cheek
Consuming care, makes wan;
Ye know the old, dear happiness
That blest your hearths,—is gone.
Ye see your comrades smitten down,—
The young, the good, the brave,—
Ye feel, the turf ye tread to-day,
May be to-morrow's grave.