Died grandly. But before he fell-- (O blessedness ineffable!) Vision apocalyptical Was granted to him, and his eyes, All radiant with glad surprise, Looked forward through the Centuries, And saw the seeds which sages cast In the world's soil in cycles past, Spring up and blossom at the last; Saw how the souls of men had grown, And where the scythes of Truth had mown Clear space for Liberty's white throne; Saw how, by sorrow tried and proved, The blackening stains had been removed Forever from the land he loved; Saw Treason crushed and Freedom crowned, And clamorous Faction, gagged and bound, Gasping its life out on the ground. * * * * * With far-off vision gazing clear Beyond this gloomy atmosphere Which shuts us out with doubt and fear He--marking how her high increase Ran greatening in perpetual lease Through balmy years of odorous Peace Greeted in one transcendent cry Of intense, passionate ecstasy The sight which thrilled him utterly; Saluting, with most proud disdain Of murder and of mortal pain, The vision which shall be again! So, lifted with prophetic pride, Raised conquering hands to heaven and cried: "All hail the Stars and Stripes!" and died. THE PICKET GUARD ETHEL LYNN BEERS [Sidenote: Sept., 1861] _The stereotyped announcement, "All Quiet on the Potomac," was followed one day in September, 1861, by the words, "A Picket Shot," and these so moved the authoress that she wrote this poem on the impulse of the moment._ "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. 'Tis nothing--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!