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;     Pass 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; -     Pass 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!