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The solemn hour, "when night and morning meet,"

Mysterious time, to superstition dear,

And superstition's guides, now passes by;

Deathlike in solitude. The sentinels,

In drowsy tones, from post to post, send on

The signal of the passing hour. "All's well,"

Sounds through the camp. Alas! all is not well;

Else, why stand I, a man, the friend of man,

At midnight's depth, deck'd in this murderous guise,

The habiliment of death, the badge of dire,

Necessitous coercion. 'T is not well.

– In vain the enlighten'd friends of suffering man

Point out, of war, the folly, guilt, and madness.

Still, age succeeds to age, and war to war;

And man, the murderer, marshalls out his hosts

In all the gaiety of festive pomp,

To spread around him death and desolation.

How long! how long! —

– Methinks I hear the tread of feet this way.

My meditating mood may work me woe.

Stand, whoso'er thou art. Answer. Who's there?

A friend.

Advance and give the countersign.

Hudson.

What, Bland!

Melville, my friend, you here?

And well, my brave young friend. But why do you,

At this dead hour of night, approach the camp,

On foot, and thus alone?

I have but now

Dismounted; and, from yon sequester'd cot,

Whose lonely taper through the crannied wall

Sheds its faint beams, and twinkles midst the trees,

Have I, adventurous, grop'd my darksome way.

My servant, and my horses, spent with toil,

There wait till morn.

Why waited not yourself?

Anxious to know the truth of those reports

Which, from the many mouths of busy Fame,

Still, as I pass'd, struck varying on my ear,

Each making th' other void. Nor does delay

The colour of my hasteful business suit.

I bring dispatches for our great Commander;

And hasted hither with design to wait

His rising, or awake him with the sun.

You will not need the last, for the blest sun

Ne'er rises on his slumbers; by the dawn

We see him mounted gaily in the field,

Or find him wrapt in meditation deep,

Planning the welfare of our war-worn land.

Prosper, kind heaven! and recompense his cares.

You're from the South, if I presume aright?

I am; and, Melville, I am fraught with news?

The South teems with events; convulsing ones:

The Briton, there, plays at no mimic war;

With gallant face he moves, and gallantly is met.

Brave spirits, rous'd by glory, throng our camp;

The hardy hunter, skill'd to fell the deer,

Or start the sluggish bear from covert rude;

And not a clown that comes, but from his youth

Is trained to pour from far the leaden death,

To climb the steep, to struggle with the stream,

To labour firmly under scorching skies,

And bear, unshrinking, winter's roughest blast.

This, and that heaven-inspir'd enthusiasm

Which ever animates the patriot's breast,

Shall far outweigh the lack of discipline.

Justice is ours; what shall prevail against her?