Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Picket of the Potomac

The Picket of the Potomac.

Said to have been found in the pocket of a Confederate soldier shot on picket duty.

 

All quiet along the Potomac they say, Except here and there a stray picket Is shot as he walks to and fro By a rifleman hid in a thicket;

 'Tis nothing; a private or two now and then Will not count in the tale'of the battle: Not an officer lost—only one of the men Breathing out all alone the death-rattle.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming! Their tents in the ray of the clear autumn moon, And the light of the watchfires gleaming. A tremulous sigh from the gentle night-winds Through the forest-leaves slowly is creeping, And the stars up above with their glittering eyes Keep watch while the army is sleeping.

There is not a sound, save the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the three on the low truckle bed Par away in the hut on the mountain. His rifle falls slack, and his face, grim and dark, Grows gentle with memories tender, And he breathes a prayer for the children asleep, Tor their mother—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to smile as serenely as then— The night when the love yet unspoken Broke forth from his lips, and when low murmured vows Were pledged never more to be broken; Then drawing his sleeves roughly over his eyes, He dashes the tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to his side, As if to keep down the heart swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, The footstep is lagging and weary, Yet onward he glides through the broad belt of light Toward the shade of the forest so dreary; Hark! was it the night-wind that rustles the leaves? Was it the moonlight so suddenly flashing? It looks like a rifle. No—Mary, good night;— His life-blood is ebbing and dashing!

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; But the dew falls unseen on the face of the dead, The picket's off duty—for ever!