An Army Corps on the March

With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,

With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley,

The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on,

Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun — the dust-cover'd men,

In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,

With artillery interspers'd — the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,

As the army corps advances.

By the Bivouac's Fitful Flame

By the bivouac's fitful flame,

A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow — but first I note,

The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,

The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire, the silence,

Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,

The shrubs and trees, ( as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me,)

While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wondrous thoughts,

Of life and death, of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;

A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,

By the bivouac's fitful flame.