He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never

call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg

ment-seat;

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across

the sea,

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you

and me;

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,

While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

[This piece, sometimes printed with the less characteristic title of "The Picket Guard," has been claimed for several authors, Northern and Southern. It appeared in the "Southern Literary Messenger," February, 1863, as "written by Lamar Fontaine, private of Company I, Second Regiment Virginia Cavalry, while on picket, on the bank of the Potomac, in 1861." More recently, it has been claimed for another Southern soldier, named Thad Oliver. But it is now known to have been written by Mrs. Ethel Lynn (or Ethelinda) Beers, of New York, and first published in "Harper's Weekly" in 1861. The phrase "All quiet along the Potomac" was a familiar one in the fall of that year; and in the indifferent announcement that was one day added, "A picket shot," the author found the inspiration of her poem.]

"ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,

"Except now and then a stray picket

་་

Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket;

"Tis nothing-a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, his death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard-for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack-his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother-may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips-when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

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 suddenly flashing?

It looked like a rifle.... "Ha! Mary, good-by!" 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 deadThe picket's off duty forever!

ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

ONLY A PRIVATE.

ONLY a private-and who will care
When I may pass away,

Or how, or why I perish, or where
I mix with the common clay?
They will fill my empty place again

With another as bold and brave;

And they'll blot me out ere the autumn rain
Has freshened my nameless grave.

Only a private-it matters not

That I did my duty well,

That all through a score of battles I fought,

And then, like a soldier, fell.

The country I died for never will heed

My unrequited claim;

And History cannot record the deed,

For she never has heard my name.

Only a private-and yet I know
When I heard the rallying-call
I was one of the very first to go,

And... I'm one of the many who fall:

But as here I lie, it is sweet to feel

That my honor's without a stain,—

That I only fought for my country's weal,
And not for glory or gain.

Only a private-yet He who reads
Through the guises of the heart,

Looks not at the splendor of the deeds,
But the way we do our part;

And when He shall take us by the hand,
And our small service own,

There'll a glorious band of privates stand
As victors around the throne!

MARGARET J. PRESTON (Southern).

THE FANCY SHOT.

[This is the title by which this famous piece is more generally known, although" Civil War" is perhaps the more authentic one. The poem appeared early in the war, in the London" Once a Week," with the caption "Civile Bellum," and dated "From the Once United States." Its authorship is not clearly settled, but is commonly attributed to Charles Dawson Shanly, who died in 1876.]

"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,

66

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dra

goon.

'Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch

From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."

"O Captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette; For he looked so like you as he lay on his back

That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket-this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket!-'tis she, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon Was her husband- Hush! soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree;

We must bury him here, by the light of the moon!

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue-weakness a sin;

There's lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in!" CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

THE COUNTERSIGN.

[There has been no little dispute as to the authorship of this poem. The Philadelphia "Press," in 1861, said it was "written by a private in Company G, Stuart's Engineer Regiment, at Camp Lesley, near Washington." But it may now be stated positively that it was written by a Confederate soldier, still living. The poem is usually printed in a very imperfect form, with the fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas omitted. The third line of the fifth stanza affords internal evidence of Southern origin.]

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.