’Twas hard to realize on
This snug side the mute horizon
That beyond it hostile armaments might steer,
Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on
A harnessed Volunteer.
In haste he’d flown there
To his comely wife alone there,
While marching south hard by, to still her fears,
For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there
In these campaigning years.
’Twas time to be Good-bying,
Since the assembly-hour was nighing
In royal George’s town at six that morn;
And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing
Ere ring of bugle-horn.
“I’ve laid in food, Dear,
And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear;
And if our July hope should antedate,
Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear,
And fetch assistance straight.
“As for Buonaparte, forget him;
He’s not like to land! But let him,
Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons!
And the war-boats built to float him; ’twere but wanted to upset him
A slat from Nelson’s guns!
“But, to assure thee,
And of creeping fears to cure thee,
If he should be rumoured anchoring in the Road,
Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee
Till we’ve him safe-bestowed.
“Now, to turn to marching matters:—
I’ve my knapsack, firelock, spatters,
Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay’net, blackball, clay,
Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters;
. . . My heart, Dear; that must stay!”
—With breathings broken
Farewell was kissed unspoken,
And they parted there as morning stroked the panes;
And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token,
And took the coastward lanes.
When above He’th Hills he found him,
He saw, on gazing round him,
The Barrow-Beacon burning—burning low,
As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he’d homeward bound him;
And it meant: Expect the Foe!
