“As for Buonaparte, forget him; He’s not like to land! But let him, Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons! And the war-boats built to float him; ’twere but wanted to upset him A slat from Nelson’s guns! “But, to assure thee, And of creeping fears to cure thee, If he _should_ be rumoured anchoring in the Road, Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee Till we’ve him safe-bestowed. “Now, to turn to marching matters:— I’ve my knapsack, firelock, spatters, Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay’net, blackball, clay, Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters; . . . My heart, Dear; that must stay!” —With breathings broken Farewell was kissed unspoken, And they parted there as morning stroked the panes; And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token, And took the coastward lanes. When above He’th Hills he found him, He saw, on gazing round him, The Barrow-Beacon burning—burning low, As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he’d homeward bound him; And it meant: Expect the Foe! [Picture: Sketch of person riding with wide landscape behind] Leaving the byway, And following swift the highway, Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland; “He’s anchored, Soldier!” shouted some: “God save thee, marching thy way, Th’lt front him on the strand!” He slowed; he stopped; he paltered Awhile with self, and faltered, “Why courting misadventure shoreward roam? To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered; Charity favours home. “Else, my denying He would come she’ll read as lying— Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes— That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying My life to jeopardize. “At home is stocked provision, And to-night, without suspicion, We might bear it with us to a covert near; Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ’s remission, Though none forgive it here!” While thus he, thinking, A little bird, quick drinking Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore, Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking, Near him, upon the moor. He stepped in, reached, and seized it, And, preening, had released it But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred, And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it As guide to send the bird. “O Lord, direct me! . . . Doth Duty now expect me To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near? Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me The southward or the rear.”