Alas! the rolling hours pass slow-- The night is very dark and still-- And in the marshes, far below, Is heard the lonely whippoorwill: I scarce can see a foot ahead-- My ears are strained to catch each sound-- I feel the leaves beneath me spread-- And the springs bubbling thro' the ground. Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rays mark my sentry's track; In formless things I seem to trace The foeman's form, with bended back-- I think I see him crouching low! I stop and list--I stop and peer-- Until the neighb'ring hillocks grow To groups of soldiers, far and near. With ready piece I wait, and watch, Until my eyes--familiar grown-- Detect each harmless earthern notch, And turn "Guerrillas" into stone; And then amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall magnolia trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these. "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 wait-- The corporal gives the mystic word-- With "arms aport" I change my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well! But in my tent, that night, awake, I ask, "If in the fray I fall, Can I the mystic answer make, When the angelic sentries call?" And pray that Heaven so ordain, Where'er I go, what fate be mine, Whether in pleasure or in pain I still may have the "Countersign!" THE DARLINGS AT HOME. By COL. C. G. FORSHEY. The sentinel treads his martial round, Afar from his humble home-- The soldier he tramps till his thoughts are found On missions of love and tenderness bound, Away among his darlings to roam. What tender emotions now over him rush! And the tears down his bearded cheeks steal, As he sees his darlings from their sportings rush, And bound to meet him with a joyful gush, "Papa's come!" from their happy lips peal. Bright Mary! as fleet as a bounding gazelle, Is into his arms with a spring; And Cabie, with voice clear as a bell, "There's papa, dear papa!" his joyous notes swell Yet choking with tears as they ring. And next, little Nubbie comes toddling along, Bright curls streaming out to the wind-- With hands reaching up, and infantile tongue-- He's lifted the welcoming group among-- As tears the stern sentinel blind. And then, with the darling bright babe, mamma comes, To welcome him home to their cot-- What sobs and caresses, That happy group blesses; Is the sentinel dreaming or not? The stern sergeant of guard, calls out from his tent, "Number Four has deserted his post!" The sentinel nearest saw whither he went, And found him, o'er musket, in reverie bent, At home--with his little ones--lost! * * * * *