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, "Tis nothing-a private or two now and then 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; There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree— Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 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 Or how, or why I perish, or where With another as bold and brave; And they'll blot me out ere the autumn rain 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 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, Only a private-yet He who reads Looks not at the splendor of the deeds, And when He shall take us by the hand, There'll a glorious band of privates stand 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; "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. |