THE MEN WHO FELL IN BALTIMORE. 73

That bound them in one brotherhood,

Forgot the flag that floated o'er

Their countrymen in Baltimore.

And the great song their son had penned,
To rally freemen to defend

The banner of the Stripes and Stars,
That makes victorious all our wars,
Was laughed to scorn, as madly then
They greeted all the gallant men
Who came from Massachusetts shore
To Washington, through Baltimore.

And when, with wildest grief, at last,
They saw their comrades falling fast,
Full on the hell-hounds in their track,
They wheeled, and drove the cowards back.
Then, with their hearts o'erwhelmed with woe,
Measured their progress, stern and slow;
Their wounded on their shoulders bore
To Washington, through Baltimore.

Yet, while New England mourns her dead,
The blood by Treason foully shed, —
Like that which flowed at Lexington,
When Freedom's earliest fight begun,
Will make the day, the month, the year,

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THE PICKET-GUARD.

To every patriot's memory dear.
Sons of great fathers gone before,
They fell for Right at Baltimore !

As over every honored grave,
Where sleeps the "unreturning brave,"
A mother sobs, a young wife moans,
A father for his lost one groans,
Oh! let the people ne'er forget
Our deep, enduring, lasting debt
To those who left their native shore
And died for us in Baltimore.

THE PICKET-GUARD.

BY E. H.*

A LONELY spot! Dark forests dense,

For weary miles outstretch around,

Very much of the soldier's picket duty in Western Virginia is performed in great, gloomy forests, with which the mountainous regions thereabouts are mainly covered. The picket post is usually on some obscure bridle-path away up in the mountain's side, or in the narrow ravine at its base, which divides it from its neighbor hills, all equally elevated, precipitous, and gloomyand oftentimes miles distant from camp. The writer has him

THE PICKET-GUARD.

And far the lonely path from hence
That echoes back the wagon's sound.

How monarch-like, leaf-crowned their forms,
Uplift those noble pine and oak-
They know a hundred winter's storms,
But not the axeman's ringing stroke.

A dreary night, nor moon nor star,
Scarce yield one ray to cheer the gloom;
Away from camp and comrade far
The picket, where may be his tomb.

The boughs o'erhead low bending grow,
The moss beneath is old and green;
Amid the bushes crouching low,

He peers, death-still, from forth between.

His rifle rests upon his knee,

And on the stock two firm hands press;

Ah! well he knows how cheerily

It heeds his fingers' quick caress.

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self thus been picketed, where for days together not a soul was to be seen except the members of his own party. In such solitudes, the hush of night is sometimes broken by the bark of the wolf or the panther's plaintive cry, while the mountain fox frequently approaches almost within bayonet-thrust of the startled picket.

The midnight must be drawing nigh; The brooklet at his feet runs on,

He hears its murmuring melody.

A soothing sound! He thinks of home,
Of loved ones left at duty's call;
And flocking round him there they come,
The same old faces, forms, and all.

The gray-haired sire leans on his staff,
The matron lives with God in heaven;
He hears his brother's ringing laugh,
His sister's loving counsel given.

But there is yet another still,

A girlish form of simple grace; How beats his heart, his pulses thrill, Still gazing on that trusting face!

Not long! a near, quick, startling crash, And home and friends and all are lost, As where he looked for foeman's flash, The prowling beast steals past his post.

The night wears on — a full hour more
Creeps drearily and slow away;

THE PICKET-GUARD.

The moments pass the midnight hour,
And glide into another day.

The winds arise; he hears o'erhead
Their wrestlings in the upper deep;
He knows to-night the Storm-King dread
No common revelry will keep.

Long-echoed through those forest aisles,
The snuffing wolf his warning brays;
The answering cry from distant hills,
The stealthy panther's haunt betrays.

The flitting nightbird's shrilly scream,
Defiant of the gathering blast;
With hollow roar and fitful gleam,

The storm around him bursts at last.

A fearful storm! The night is black,
The torrent pours, the tree-tops reel,
And as it were dark doomsday's wreck,
Red lightnings flash and thunders peal.

Against his sturdy tree close pressed,
The picket's dripping form is leant,

And though no shelter, it is rest;

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Thank Heaven! the tempest's wrath is spent.