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, 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? 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 dead The picket's off duty forever. Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879] CIVIL WAR [1861] "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, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon. "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, "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 there, by the light of the moon! "But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Charles Dawson Shanly [1811-1875] KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES [MAY 31, 1862] So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,- 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,— When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left,—and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,-through the clearing or pine? "Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!" Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Yet we dream that he still,-in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign, Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is "Forward!" along the whole line. Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908] BARBARA FRIETCHIE [SEPTEMBER 13, 1862] Up from the meadows rich with corn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down, Forty flags with their silver stars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, Up the street came the rebel tread, Under his slouched hat left and right "Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; Quick as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirred "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street All day long that free flag tossed Ever its torn folds rose and fell And through the hill-gaps sunset light Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! Peace and order and beauty draw |