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 earthern 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.

Sweet visions through the silent night!

The deep bay-windows fringed with vine,

The room within, in softened light,

The tender milk-white hand in mine;

The timid pressure, and the pause

That often overcame our speechThat time when by mysterious laws We each felt all in all to each.

And then that bitter, bitter day,

When came the final hour to part;
When, clad in soldier's honest gray,
I pressed her weeping to my heart;
Too proud of me to bid me stay,

Too fond of me to let me go,—
I had to tear myself away,

And left her, stolid in my woe.

So rose the dream-so passed the night—
When, distant in the darksome glen,
Approaching up the sombre height
I heard the solid march of men;

Till over stubble, over sward,

And fields where lay the golden sheaf, I saw the lantern of the guard

Advancing with the night relief.

"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 (Southern).

THE BRAVE AT HOME.

THE maid who binds her warrior's sash,
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear
As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief,

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on freedom's field of honor!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

BOY BRITTAN.

[Battle of Fort Henry, Tenn., February 6, 1862.]

I.

BOY BRITTAN-only a lad-a fair-haired boy-six

teen,

In his uniform,

Into the storm-into the roaring jaws of grim Fort

Henry

Boldly bears the Federal flotilla—

Into the battle storm!

II.

Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the EssexThere he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed,

By the brave captain's side;

Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready

In his country's uniform.

Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,

Into the battle storm!

III.

Boom! Boom! till river and fort and field are overclouded

By battle's breath; then from the fort a gleam And a crashing gun, and the Essex is wrapt and shrouded

In a scalding cloud of steam!

IV.

But victory! victory!

Unto God all praise be ever rendered,
Unto God all praise and glory be!
See, boy Brittan! see, boy, see!

They strike! Hurrah! the fort has just surrendered!

Shout! Shout! my boy, my warrior boy! And wave your cap and clap your hands for joy! Cheer answer cheer and bear the cheer aboutHurrah! Hurrah! for the fiery fort is ours; And "Victory!" "Victory!" "Victory!" Is the shout.

Shout-for the fiery fort, and the field, and the day

are ours

The day is ours-thanks to the brave endeavor Of heroes, boy, like thee!

The day is ours-the day is ours!

Glory and deathless love to all who shared with

thee,

And bravely endured and dared with thee—

The day is ours--the day is ours—

Forever!

Glory and Love for one and all; but but-for thee

Home! Home! a happy "Welcome-welcome home" for thee!

And kisses of love for thee

And a mother's happy, happy tears, and a virgin's bridal wreath of flowers

For thee!

V.

Victory! Victory! ...

But suddenly wrecked and wrapt in seething steam, the Essex

Slowly drifted out of the battle's storm;

Slowly, slowly down-laden with the dead and the dying;

And there, at the captain's feet, among the dead and the dying,

The shot-marred form of a beautiful boy is lyingThere in his uniform!

VI.

Laurels and tears for thee, boy,

Laurels and tears for thee!

Laurels of light, moist with the precious dew

Of the inmost heart of the nation's loving heart, And blest by the balmy breath of the beautiful and the true;

Moist-moist with the luminous breath of the singing spheres

And the nation's sta'ry tears! And tremble-touched by the pulse-like gush and

start

Of the universal music of the heart,

And all deep sympathy

Laurels and tears for thee, boy,

Laurels and tears for thee

Laurels of light and tears of love forevermore—

For thee!