The Guard Dies

 

 

By droshky, trap, and landau,

the worthy and responsible of the realm

arrive one icy night

at an auxiliary palace deep in the country.

Their horses, glad of rest,

shiver, piteously snort, and are quickly stabled.

Alighting, the Ministers of War,

the Exchequer, Public Order, Education,

and other medaled chests mightier still,

warm in their furs, discuss –

somber, but careless of being heard –

issues of state. The smoke

of pipes and cigars rewards

the single guard, a conscript, young and hale,

whose uniform is gorgeous but too thin,

whom only the officers acknowledge, and

who trembles now with awe as well as cold.

 

They pass into the palace,

fling off their coats, dine and refresh themselves,

then gather in a glassed and darkened alcove

from which, unseen, unheard, they watch the guard.

During the night older nobles

doze, are laughed awake, and hurry

as they can to the window.

A table groans with dainties, brandy, humidors.

“He’s Twentieth Regiment, isn’t he?”

asks a civilian, showing off.

“They choose the best.” A field marshal

names the boy’s province, which is praised.

No bets are laid; it would mean social death

to suggest one. At midnight

the watch should change but doesn’t;

and the guard, pale in torchlight,

looks around – the watchers hold their breath –

takes a few steps, slaps his arms,

then comes again to attention.

At one, the constant wind brings heavy snow,

which, to the witnesses’ delight, persists.

At three fifteen he slumps, at four

he falls and is swiftly covered;

so that the usual debate occurs,

idle and slurred, whether to wake

and shoot what limbs are left or let him sleep.