He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,—­
    The footstep is lagging and weary;
  Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
    Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
  Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? 
    Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? 
  It looked like a rifle:  “Ha!  Mary, good-bye!”
    And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

  All quiet along the Potomac to-night,—­
    No sound save the rush of the river;
  While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,—­
  The picket’s off duty forever.

ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS.

* * * * *

THE COUNTERSIGN.

  Alas the weary hours pass slow,
    The night is very dark and still,
  And in the marshes far below
    I hear the bearded whippoorwill. 
  I scarce can see a yard ahead;
    My ears are strained to catch each sound;
  I hear the leaves about me shed,
    And the spring’s bubbling through the ground.

  Along the beaten path I pace,
    Where white rags mark my sentry’s track;
  In formless shrubs I seem to trace
    The foeman’s form, with bending back;
  I think I see him crouching low—­
    I stop and list—­I stoop and peer,
  Until the neighboring hillocks grow
    To groups of soldiers far and near.

  With ready piece I wait and watch,
    Until my eyes, familiar grown,
  Detect each harmless earthen notch,
    And turn guerrillas into stone;
  And then amid the lonely gloom,
    Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,
  My silent marches I resume,
    And think of other times than these.

  “Halt! who goes there?” my challenge cry,
    It rings along the watchful line;
  “Relief!” I hear a voice reply—­
    “Advance, and give the countersign!”
  With bayonet at the charge I wait—­
    The corporal gives the mystic spell;
  With arms aport I charge my mate,
    Then onward pass, and all is well.

  But in the tent that night awake,
    I ask, if in the fray I fall,
  Can I the mystic answer make,
    When the angelic sentries call? 
  And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
    Where’er I go, what fate be mine,
  Whether in pleasure or in pain,
    I still may have the countersign.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

CIVIL WAR.

  “Rifleman shoot me a fancy shot
    Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
  Ring me a ball in the glittering spot
    That shines on his breast like an amulet!”

  “Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead,
    There’s music around when my barrel’s in tune!”
  Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,
    And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.