Beating against the windows,
The sleet falls heavy and chill,
And the children draw nigher 'round hearth and fire,
As the blast shrieks loud and shrill.
Silent is all without,
Save the sentry's challenge grim,
And a hush sinks down o'er the weary town,
And the sleeper's eyes are dim.
Watchman, what of the night?
Hark! from the old church-tower
Rings loud and clear, on the misty air,
The chime of the midnight hour.
But another sound breaks in,
A summons deep and rude,
The roll of the drum, and the rush and hum
Of a gathering multitude.
And the dim and flickering torch
Sheds a red and lurid glare,
O'er the long dark line, whose bayonets shine
Faintly, yet sternly there.
A low, deep voice is heard:
"Rest on your arms, my men."
Then the muskets clank through each serried rank,
And all is still again.
Pale faces and tearful eyes
Gaze down on that grim array,
For a rumor hath spread that that column dread
Marcheth ere break of day.
Marcheth against "the rebels,"
Whose camp lies heavy and still,
Where the driving sleet and the cold rain beat
On the brow of a distant hill.
And the mother's heart grows faint,
As she thinks of her darling one,
Who perchance may lie 'neath that wintry sky,
Ere the long, dark night be done.
Pallid and haggard, too,
Is the cheek of the fair young wife;
And her eye grows dim as she thinks of him
She loveth more than life.