Over the hearth--my father’s seat-- Repose, to patriot-memory dear, Thou tried companion, whom at last I greet By steepy banks of Hudson here. How oft I told thee of this scene-- The Highlands blue--the river’s narrowing sheen. Little at Gettysburg we thought To find such haven; but God kept it green. Long rest! with belt, and bayonet, and canteen. 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.