Classic Poem

The leader of the scouting party frowned,
And peered with furrowed brows around him. Lost
They were, for now for many weary miles,
They had been wandering through wooded hills,
Unknown to them. Now they had come upon
A narrow sunny dell. Huge stately trees
Grew from its grassy floor, and spread their limbs
To shade a tiny brook, that flowed along
And laved their roots with dreamy murmuring.
The leader spoke: " To find our lost command
Is our first care. Perhaps a bugle call
Will bring them to us, and we can but try. "
He raised the bugle to his lips and blew.
The loud, clear notes rang on the sunny air.
And in the noonday stillness, carried far.
A wandering Echo, loitering through the dell,
Caught up the call, and slow repeated it,
Over and over, 'till it fainter grew,
And died away in falling cadences.
Scarce had it died, when faint and far away,
Thin as an elfin trumpet, through the trees,
An answer came, and then faint shouts of men,
And signal shots. " 'Tis they, " the leader cried.
Then through the wood they saw the marching forms
Of their command, and closing up their ranks,
Went forth to meet them in the sunny glade.