- end_line
- 3842
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:47:58.829Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3728
- text
- The Scout toward Aldie.
The cavalry-camp lies on the slope
Of what was late a vernal hill,
But now like a pavement bare--
An outpost in the perilous wilds
Which ever are lone and still;
But Mosby’s men are there--
Of Mosby best beware.
Great trees the troopers felled, and leaned
In antlered walls about their tents;
Strict watch they kept; ’twas _Hark!_ and _Mark!_
Unarmed none cared to stir abroad
For berries beyond their forest-fence:
As glides in seas the shark,
Rides Mosby through green dark.
All spake of him, but few had seen
Except the maimed ones or the low;
Yet rumor made him every thing--
A farmer--woodman--refugee--
The man who crossed the field but now;
A spell about his life did cling--
Who to the ground shall Mosby bring?
The morning-bugles lonely play,
Lonely the evening-bugle calls--
Unanswered voices in the wild;
The settled hush of birds in nest
Becharms, and all the wood enthralls:
Memory’s self is so beguiled
That Mosby seems a satyr’s child.
They lived as in the Eerie Land--
The fire-flies showed with fairy gleam;
And yet from pine-tops one might ken
The Capitol dome--hazy--sublime--
A vision breaking on a dream:
So strange it was that Mosby’s men
Should dare to prowl where the Dome was seen.
A scout toward Aldie broke the spell.--
The Leader lies before his tent
Gazing at heaven’s all-cheering lamp
Through blandness of a morning rare;
His thoughts on bitter-sweets are bent:
His sunny bride is in the camp--
But Mosby--graves are beds of damp!
The trumpet calls; he goes within;
But none the prayer and sob may know:
Her hero he, but bridegroom too.
Ah, love in a tent is a queenly thing,
And fame, be sure, refines the vow;
But fame fond wives have lived to rue,
And Mosby’s men fell deeds can do.
_Tan-tara! tan-tara! tan-tara!_
Mounted and armed he sits a king;
For pride she smiles if now she peep--
Elate he rides at the head of his men;
He is young, and command is a boyish thing:
They file out into the forest deep--
Do Mosby and his rangers sleep?
The sun is gold, and the world is green,
Opal the vapors of morning roll;
The champing horses lightly prance--
Full of caprice, and the riders too
Curving in many a caricole.
But marshaled soon, by fours advance--
Mosby had checked that airy dance.
By the hospital-tent the cripples stand--
Bandage, and crutch, and cane, and sling,
And palely eye the brave array;
The froth of the cup is gone for them
(Caw! caw! the crows through the blueness wing);
Yet these were late as bold, as gay;
But Mosby--a clip, and grass is hay.
How strong they feel on their horses free,
Tingles the tendoned thigh with life;
Their cavalry-jackets make boys of all--
With golden breasts like the oriole;
The chat, the jest, and laugh are rife.
But word is passed from the front--a call
For order; the wood is Mosby’s hall.
To which behest one rider sly
(Spurred, but unarmed) gave little heed--
Of dexterous fun not slow or spare,
He teased his neighbors of touchy mood,
Into plungings he pricked his steed:
A black-eyed man on a coal-black mare,
Alive as Mosby in mountain air.
His limbs were long, and large and round;
He whispered, winked--did all but shout:
A healthy man for the sick to view;
The taste in his mouth was sweet at morn;
Little of care he cared about.
And yet of pains and pangs he knew--
In others, maimed by Mosby’s crew.
The Hospital Steward--even he
(Sacred in person as a priest),
And on his coat-sleeve broidered nice
Wore the caduceus, black and green.
No wonder he sat so light on his beast;
This cheery man in suit of price
Not even Mosby dared to slice.
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