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 deadThe picket's off duty forever! ETHEL LYNN BEERS. ONLY A PRIVATE. ONLY a private-and who will care Or how, or why I perish, or where And they'll blot me out ere the autumn rain Only a private-it matters not That I did my duty well, That all through a score of battles I fought, And then, like a soldier, fell. The country I died for never will heed My unrequited claim; And History cannot record the deed, For she never has heard my name. Only a private-and yet I know I was one of the very first to go, And... I'm one of the many who fall: But as here I lie, it is sweet to feel That my honor's without a stain,— That I only fought for my country's weal, Only a private-yet He who reads Looks not at the splendor of the deeds, And when He shall take us by the hand, There'll a glorious band of privates stand MARGARET J. PRESTON (Southern). THE FANCY SHOT. ་ [This is the title by which this famous piece is more generally known, although" Civil War" is perhaps the more authentic one. The poem appeared early in the war, in the London" Once a Week," with the caption " Civile Bellum,' and dated "From the Once United States." Its authorship is not clearly settled, but is commonly attributed to Charles Dawson Shanly, who died in 1876.] "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, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette; For he looked so like you as he lay on his back That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet. "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 here, by the light of the moon! "But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue-weakness a sin; There's lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in!" CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. THE COUNTERSIGN. [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 it 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.] ALAS! the weary hours pass slow, 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 rags 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, 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; And then that bitter, bitter day, When came the final hour to part; Too fond of me to let me go,— And left her, stolid in my woe. So rose the dream-so passed the night- Till over stubble, over sward, 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; Advance, and give the countersign!" With bayonet at the charge I waitThe corporal gives the mystic spell; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well. But in the tent that night awake, ANONYMOUS (Southern). THE BRAVE AT HOME. THE maid who binds her warrior's sash, One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, |