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. They pass the picket by the pine And hollow log--a lonesome place; His horse adroop, and pistol clean; ’Tis cocked--kept leveled toward the wood; Strained vigilance ages his childish face. Since midnight has that stripling been Peering for Mosby through the green. Splashing they cross the freshet-flood, And up the muddy bank they strain; A horse at the spectral white-ash shies-- One of the span of the ambulance, Black as a hearse. They give the rein: Silent speed on a scout were wise, Could cunning baffle Mosby’s spies. Rumor had come that a band was lodged In green retreats of hills that peer By Aldie (famed for the swordless charge[22]). Much store they’d heaped of captured arms And, peradventure, pilfered cheer; For Mosby’s lads oft hearts enlarge In revelry by some gorge’s marge. “Don’t let your sabres rattle and ring; To his oat-bag let each man give heed-- There now, that fellow’s bag’s untied, Sowing the road with the precious grain. Your carbines swing at hand--you need! Look to yourselves, and your nags beside, Men who after Mosby ride.” Picked lads and keen went sharp before-- A guard, though scarce against surprise; And rearmost rode an answering troop, But flankers none to right or left. No bugle peals, no pennon flies: Silent they sweep, and fail would swoop On Mosby with an Indian whoop.