45. the Picket-guard.
by E. H.
Very much of the soldier's picket duty in Western Virginia is performed in great, gloomy forests, with which the mountainous regions hereabouts are mainly covered. The picket post is usually on some obscure bridle-path away up in the mountain's side, or in the narrow ravine at its base, which divides it from its neighbor hills, all equally elevated, precipitous and gloomy — and oftentimes miles distant from camp. The writer has himself thus been picketed, where for days together not a soul was to be seen except the members of his own party. In such solitudes, the hush of night is sometimes broken by the bark of the wolf or the panther's plaintive cry, while the mountain fox frequently approaches almost within bayonet-thrust of the startled picket.A lonely spot! Dark forests dense,
For weary miles outstretch around,
And far the lonely path from hence
That echoes back the wagon's sound.
How monarch-like, leaf-crowned their forms,
Uplift those noble pine and oak--
They know a hundred winter's storms,
But not the axeman's ringing stroke.
A dreary night, nor moon nor star,
Scarce yield one ray to cheer the gloom;
Away from camp and comrade far,
The picket where may be his tomb.
The boughs o'erhead low bending grow,
The moss beneath is old and green;
Amid the bushes crouching low,
He peers, death-still, from forth between.
His rifle rests upon his knee,
And on the stock two firm hands press;
Ah! well he knows how cheerily
It heeds his fingers' quick caress.
Three weary hours — or more — are gone;
The midnight must be drawing nigh;
The brooklet at his feet runs on,
He hears its murmuring melody.
A soothing sound! He thinks of home,
Of loved ones left at duty's call;
And flocking round him there they come,
The same old faces, forms and all.
The grey-haired sire leans on his staff,
The matron lives with God in heaven;
He hears his brother's ringing laugh,
His sister's loving counsel given.
But there is yet another still,
A girlish form of simple grace;
How beats his heart, his pulses thrill,
Still gazing on that trusting face!
Not long! a near, quick startling crash,
And home, and friends, and all are lost,
As where he looked for foeman's flash,
The prowling beast steals past his post.
The night wears on — a full hour more
Creeps drearily and slow away;
The moments pass the midnight hour,
And glide into another day.
The winds arise; he hears o'erhead
Their wrestlings in the upper deep;
He knows to-night the Storm-King dread
No common revelry will keep.
Long-echoed through those forest aisles,
The snuffing wolf his warning brays;
The answering cry from distant hills,
The stealthy panther's haunt betrays.
The flitting nightbirds shrilly scream,
Defiant of the gathering blast
With hollow roar and fitful gleam,
The storm around him bursts at last.
A fearful storm! The night is black,
The torrent pours, the tree-tops reel,
And as it were dark doomsday's wreck,
Red lightnings flash and thunders peal.
Against his sturdy tree close pressed,
The picket's dripping form is leant,
And though no shelter, it is rest;
Thank heaven! the tempest's wrath is spent.
The quivering leaves their showers distil,
The swollen stream sweeps madly on,
The north wind low is numbing chill
To him that weary waits the dawn.
It comes at last — O beam of hope!
Thank God that doth the day restore;
The sun mounts up the eastern slope,
And, comrades, camp is gained once more.
camp Elkwater, Va., Oct. 14, 1861.
