Iv

Soft down the line of darkened battlements, Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, Where the low arching sallyport indents, Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. All is repose save where the camping tents Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound No morning guns for reveille, nor whence No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found Waiting and present on each sentry's round.