The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 113

"QUI VIVE?"

"Qui vive?" The sentry's musket rings, The channelled bayonet gleams; High o'er him, like a raven's wings The broad tricolored banner flings Its shadow, rustling as it swings Pale in the moonlight beams; Pa.s.s on! while steel-clad sentries keep Their vigil o'er the monarch's sleep, Thy bare, unguarded breast Asks not the unbroken, bristling zone That girds yon sceptred trembler's throne;-- Pa.s.s on, and take thy rest!

"Qui vive?" How oft the midnight air That startling cry has borne!

How oft the evening breeze has fanned The banner of this haughty land, O'er mountain snow and desert sand, Ere yet its folds were torn!

Through Jena's carnage flying red, Or tossing o'er Marengo's dead, Or curling on the towers Where Austria's eagle quivers yet, And suns the ruffled plumage, wet With battle's crimson showers!

"Qui vive?" And is the sentry's cry,-- The sleepless soldier's hand,-- Are these--the painted folds that fly And lift their emblems, printed high On morning mist and sunset sky-- The guardians of a land?

No! If the patriot's pulses sleep, How vain the watch that hirelings keep, The idle flag that waves, When Conquest, with his iron heel, Treads down the standards and the steel That belt the soil of slaves!