THE PICKET-GUARD.

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They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil,

From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen.

As each column wheels by,

Hear their hearts' battle-cry,—

It was Warren's,—'Tis sweet for our country to die!

III.

The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels, Watch over our soldiers by day and by night; And the King of all glory, the Chief of all armies, Shall love them and lead them who dare to be right!

As each column wheels by,

Hear their hearts' battle-cry,

It was Warren's, -'Tis sweet for our country to die!

THE PICKET-GUARD.

ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

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"T is nothing

THE PICKET-GUARD.

a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard — for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack,- his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, — For their mother, — may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips, — when low, murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

THE PICKET-GUARD.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;

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Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? "Ha! MARY, good-by!"

It looked like a rifle

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

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.

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THE HOLY WAR.

THE HOLY WAR.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

"And I saw heaven opened, and beheld a white horse; and He that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness He doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on His head were many crowns; and He had a name written, that no man knew, but He himself. And the armies which were in heaven followed Him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean."— Rev. xix. 11, 12, 14.

то

O the last battle set, throughout the earth! Not for vile lust of plunder or of power, The hosts of justice and eternal right

Unfurl their banner in this solemn hour.

A King rides forth, whose eyes, as burning fire,
Wither oppression in their dazzling flame;
And He hath sworn to right all human wrong,
By the dread power of His mysterious name.

O'er all the earth resounds His trumpet-call.
The nations, waking from their dreary night,
Are mustering in their ranks, and thronging on
To hail the brightness of His rising light:

And all the armies that behind Him ride,

Come in white raiment, spotless as the snow;

THE HOLY WAR.

"Freedom and Justice" is their battle-cry, And all the earth rejoices as they go.

Shoulder to shoulder ride the brother bands, Brave hearts and tender, with undaunted eye; With manly patience ready to endure,

With gallant daring resolute to die.

They know not fear, for what have they to fear Who all have counted, and have all resigned, And laid their lives a solemn offering down

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For laws, for truth, for freedom,- for mankind?

No boastful words are theirs, nor murderous zeal,
Nor courage fed with the inebriate bowl;
But their brave hearts show in true touch and time
The sober courage of the manly soul.

Ah! who can say how precious and how dear Those noble hearts, of thousand homes the light? Yet wives and mothers, smiling through their tears, Gave them, unmurmuring, to the holy fight.

O brothers, banded for this sacred war!

Keep your white garments spotless still and pure; Be priestly warriors, hallowing the right, So shall your victory be swift and sure.