2. Camp after camp, like marble square on square; Street following street, with many a park between; Bright bayonet-sparkles in the tremulous air; Far-fading, purple smoke above their sheen; Green central fields with flags like flowers abloom; And, all about, close-ordered, populous life: But here no festering trade, no civic strife, Only the blue-clad soldiers everywhere, Waiting to-morrow’s victory or doom,— Men of the hour, to whom these pictures seem, Like school-boy thoughts, half real, half a dream. 3. Camps of the cavalry, apart, Are pitched with nicest art On hilly suburbs where old forests grow. Here, by itself, one glimmers through the pines,— One whose high-hearted chief we know: A thousand men leap when his bugles blow; A thousand horses curvet at his lines, Pawing the turf; among them come and go The jacketed troopers, changed by wind and rain, Storm, raid, and skirmish, sunshine, midnight dew, To bronzéd men who never ride in vain. 4. In the great wall-tent at the head of the square, The Colonel hangs his sword, and there Huge logs burn high in front at the close of the day; And the captains gather ere the long tattoo, While the banded buglers play; Then come the tales of home and the troopers’ song. Clear over the distant outposts float the notes, And the lone vidette to catch them listens long; And the officer of the guard, upon his round, Pauses, to hear the sound Of the chiming chorus poured from a score of throats: 5. CAVALRY SONG. Our good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman’s fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle! HALT! Each carbine send its whizzing ball: Now, cling! clang! forward all, Into the fight! Dash on beneath the smoking dome, Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. CHARGE! Cling! clang! forward all! Heaven help those whose horses fall! Cut left and right! They flee before our fierce attack! They fall, they spread in broken surges! Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL! The bugles sound the swift recall: Cling! clang! backward all! Home, and good night! XII.