And thinks of the two in the low trundle bed 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, He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree- Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Towards the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves? It looks like a rifle-ah! "Mary, good-bye!" All quiet along the Potomac to-night, While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead- [In his admirably edited collection of poems of the civil war, entitled " 'Bugle Echoes," Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this poem with the following note: "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 is 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."-EDITOR.] A THE COUNTERSIGN. LAS! 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 rays mark my sentry's track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The foeman's form with bending back, With ready piece I wait and watch, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, And think of other times than these. Sweet visions through the silent night! The room within, in softened light, The tender, milk-white hand in mine; The timid pressure, and the pause And then that bitter, bitter day, I pressed her weeping to my heart; I had to tear myself away, And left her, stolid in my woe. So rose the dream, so passed the night— I heard the solid march of men ; 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; |