Oh, thoughts that kill! I thought of the hill In the far-off Jura chain; Of the two, the three, o’er the wide salt sea, Whose hearts would break with pain;
Of my pride and joy—my eldest boy; Of my darling, the second—in years; Of Willie, whose face with its pure, mild grace, Melts memory into tears;
Of their mother, my bride, by the Alpine lake’s side, And the angels asleep in her arms; Love, Beauty, and Truth, which she brought to my youth, In that sweet April day of her charms.
“Halt! Who comes there?” The cold midnight air, And the challenging word, chills me through: The ghost of a fear whispers, close to my ear, “Is peril, love, coming to you?”
The hoarse answer, “Relief,” makes the shade of a grief Die away, with the step on the sod. A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer Confide my beloved to God.
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp! With a solemn pendulum-swing! Though I slumber all night, the fire burns bright, And my sentinels’ scabbards ring.
“Boot and saddle!” is sounding. Our pulses are bounding. “To horse!” and I touch with my heel Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks, With my heart, like my sabre, of steel. Horace Binney Sargent.