Just across the boundary, we sat down on the brink of glorious Lake Tahoe, (once “Bigler,” till the ex-Governor of that name became a Copperhead, and the loyal Californians kicked him out of their geography, as he had already been thrust out of their politics,)—­a crystal sheet of water fresh-distilled from the snow-peaks, its granite bottom visible at the depth of a hundred feet, its banks a celestial garden, lying in a basin thirty-five miles long by ten wide, and nearly seven thousand feet above the Pacific level.  Geography has no superior to this glorious sea, this chalice of divine cloud-wine held sublimely up against the very press whence it was wrung.  Here, virtually at the end of our overland journey, since our feet pressed the green borders of the Golden State, we sat down to rest, feeling that one short hour, one little league, had translated us out of the infernal world into heaven.

* * * * *

ON PICKET DUTY.

  Within a green and shadowy wood,
  Circled with spring, alone I stood: 
  The nook was peaceful, fair, and good.

  The wild-plum blossoms lured the bees,
  The birds sang madly in the trees,
  Magnolia-scents were on the breeze.

  All else was silent; but the ear
  Caught sounds of distant bugle clear,
  And heard the bullets whistle near,—­

  When from the winding river’s shore
  The Rebel guns began to roar,
  And ours to answer, thundering o’er;

  And echoed from the wooded hill,
  Repeated and repeated still,
  Through all my soul they seemed to thrill.

  For, as their rattling storm awoke,
  And loud and fast the discord broke,
  In rude and trenchant words they spoke.

  “We hate!” boomed fiercely o’er the tide;
  “We fear not!” from the other side;
  “We strike!” the Rebel guns replied.

  Quick roared our answer, “We defend!”
  “Our rights!” the battle-sounds contend;
  “The rights of all!” we answer send.

  “We conquer!” rolled across the wave;
  “We persevere!” our answer gave;
  “Our chivalry!” they wildly rave.

  “Ours are the brave!” “Be ours the free!”
  “Be ours the slave, the masters we!”
  “On us their blood no more shall be!”

  As when some magic word is spoken,
  By which a wizard spell is broken,
  There was a silence at that token.

  The wild birds dared once more to sing,
  I heard the pine-bough’s whispering,
  And trickling of a silver spring.

  Then, crashing forth with smoke and din,
  Once more the rattling sounds begin,
  Our iron lips roll forth, “We win!”

  And dull and wavering in the gale
  That rushed in gusts across the vale
  Came back the faint reply, “We fail!”

  And then a word, both stern and sad,
  From throat of huge Columbiad,—­
  “Blind fools and traitors! ye are mad!”