"Who comes?"  The sentry's warning cry

             Rings sharply on the evening air:

           Who comes?  The challenge: no reply,

             Yet something motions there.

           A woman, by those graceful folds;

             A soldier, by that martial tread:

           "Advance three paces.  Halt! until

             Thy name and rank be said."

           "My name?  Her name, in ancient song,

             Who fearless from Olympus came:

           Look on me!  Mortals know me best

             In battle and in flame."

           "Enough! I know that clarion voice;

             I know that gleaming eye and helm,

           Those crimson lips,—and in their dew

             The best blood of the realm.

           "The young, the brave, the good and wise,

             Have fallen in thy curst embrace:

           The juices of the grapes of wrath

             Still stain thy guilty face.

           "My brother lies in yonder field,

             Face downward to the quiet grass:

           Go back! he cannot see thee now;

             But here thou shalt not pass."

           A crack upon the evening air,

             A wakened echo from the hill:

           The watchdog on the distant shore

             Gives mouth, and all is still.

           The sentry with his brother lies

             Face downward on the quiet grass;

           And by him, in the pale moonshine,

             A shadow seems to pass.

           No lance or warlike shield it bears:

             A helmet in its pitying hands

           Brings water from the nearest brook,

             To meet his last demands.

           Can this be she of haughty mien,

             The goddess of the sword and shield?

           Ah, yes!  The Grecian poet's myth

             Sways still each battlefield.

           For not alone that rugged War

             Some grace or charm from Beauty gains;

           But, when the goddess' work is done,

             The woman's still remains.

           This is the reed the dead musician dropped,

             With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;

           The prompt allegro of its music stopped,

             Its melodies unbidden.

           But who shall finish the unfinished strain,

             Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,

           And bid the slender barrel breathe again,

             An organ-pipe of thunder!

           His pen! what humbler memories cling about

             Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces

           Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out

             In smiles and courtly phrases?

           The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung;

             The word of cheer, with recognition in it;

           The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung

             The golden gift within it.

           But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave:

             No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision:

           The incantation that its power gave

             Sleeps with the dead magician.

           I read last night of the grand review

           In Washington's chiefest avenue,—

           Two hundred thousand men in blue,

               I think they said was the number,—

           Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet,

           The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat,

           The clatter of hoofs in the stony street,

           The cheers of people who came to greet,

           And the thousand details that to repeat

               Would only my verse encumber,—

           Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet,

               And then to a fitful slumber.

           When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand

           In the lonely Capitol.  On each hand

           Far stretched the portico, dim and grand

           Its columns ranged like a martial band

           Of sheeted spectres, whom some command

               Had called to a last reviewing.

           And the streets of the city were white and bare,

           No footfall echoed across the square;

           But out of the misty midnight air

           I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,

           And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear

               The sound of a far tattooing.

           Then I held my breath with fear and dread

           For into the square, with a brazen tread,

           There rode a figure whose stately head

               O'erlooked the review that morning,

           That never bowed from its firm-set seat

           When the living column passed its feet,