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, The banner of the Stripes and Stars, And when, with wildest grief, at last, Yet, while New England mourns her dead, 74 THE PICKET-GUARD. To every patriot's memory dear. As over every honored grave, 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 How monarch-like, leaf-crowned their forms, A dreary night, nor moon nor star, The boughs o'erhead low bending grow, 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. 75 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, The gray-haired sire leans on his staff, 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 THE PICKET-GUARD. The moments pass the midnight hour, The winds arise; he hears o'erhead Long-echoed through those forest aisles, The flitting nightbird's shrilly scream, The storm around him bursts at last. A fearful storm! The night is black, Against his sturdy tree close pressed, And though no shelter, it is rest; 77 Thank Heaven! the tempest's wrath is spent. |