"My worthy lad," said Washington, "We seek without despair, Although we find, in all yon arch, No sign of morning there." "And know whose gracious hand it is That times the darkest sky," Said Hale. "Adieu!" said Washington, "God keep you,--go,--good-bye!" II. 1. The flitting Hours, with golden brands Once more adorned with flame, Beheld our land in busy act, Where war was all the game. Out of his cups of deep carouse, That reeled till morning shine, The Provost of the Lion camp Came forth the tented line. An ugly man,--a tiger soul, Lodged in a human house,-- With whiskey fuming from his hide, And hair about his brows. And Hale had hid his skiff, and now Was coming by the shore, Thinking of many serious things He never thought before. He mused of all the hard assays Of this our mortal state; The bitter bruise, and bloody blows Of Virtue matched with Fate. He heard the larks and robins sing, And tears came in his eyes, To think how man, and man alone, Was cast from Paradise. 2. "Well Hodge, how's turnips? What's in this?" "Now who be you?" said Hale, "I aint no Hodge,--taint turnips,--stop,-- Let go,--this here's for sale." "Powder and grog! be quiet, lad. Tobacco! by my soul! Rebel, we've come to take the land,-- Hands off!--I seize the whole." The Provost wheeled towards the camp. Hale followed with a cry: "Give me my pack--now--come--you sir!" "Clod-shoes, get home!--not I." But epaulettes were on the road.-- The trick was getting worse. The Provost dumped the pack aside, With a substantial curse. "Wa'al, mister, that's the han'some thing! That are tobaker's prime. I knowed you didn't mean to grab,-- I knowed it all the time. "I'm goin' to peddle, up to camp, And if you only would Go snacks, and help me sell, you might. Come, I should say you could." "Yorky, pick up your pack, hook on, Hook on, we'll make it even." The lines were passed, the countersign,-- "Whither away,"--was given. "I see," said Hale, within himself, "This man's internal shape,-- The Devil can do a gracious turn, To shy a graceless scrape." 3. Gay was the camp with liveried men; Some trimmed the gun and blade, Some chatted in the morning sun, Some slept along the shade. And some bore out the soldier dead On his unfollowed bier-- The soldier dead, the hapless dead, Who died without a tear. So lately wept from England's shore, And winged with prayers afar, To feel the piercing thunder-shock, Gored by the horns of War. 4.