ON GUARD.

BY JOHN G. NICOLAY.

In the black terror-night,
On yon mist-shrouded hill,
Slowly, with footstep light,
Stealthy and grim and still,
Like ghost in winding sheet
Risen at midnight bell,
Over his lonely beat

Marches the sentinel!

In storm-defying cloak—
Hand on his trusty gun-
Heart, like a heart of oåk—
Eye, never-setting sun;
Speaks but the challenge-shout,
All foes without the line,
Heeds but, to solve the doubt,
Watchword and countersign.

Camp-ward, the watchfires gleam Beacon-like in the gloom; Round them his comrades dream Pictures of youth and home. While in his heart the bright Hope-fires shine everywhere, In love's enchanting light Memory lies dreaming there.

Faint, through the silence come From the foes' grim array,

Growl of impatient drum

Eager for morrow's fray

Echo of song and shout,
Curse and carousal glee,

As in a fiendish rout

Demons at revelry.

Close, in the gloomy shade-
Danger lurks ever nigh—
Grasping his dagger-blade
Crouches th' assassin spy;
Shrinks at the guardsman's tread,
Quails 'fore his gleaming eyes,
Creeps back with baffled hate,
Cursing his cowardice.

Naught can beguile his bold,
Unsleeping vigilance;
E'en in the fireflame, old

Visions unheeded dance.

Fearless of lurking spy,
Scornful of wassail-swell,
With an undaunted eye

Marches the sentinel.

Low, to his trusty gun

Eagerly whispers he,

"Wait, with the morning sun

March we to victory, Fools, into Satan's clutch

Leaping ere dawn of day: He who would fight must watch, He who would win must pray."

Pray for the night hath wings; Watch! for the foe is near; March! till the morning brings Fame-wreath or soldier's bier.

So shall the poet write,

When all hath ended well,

"Thus through the nation's night
Marched Freedom's sentinel.❞

ARE there not many hearts that will feel the pangs of keenest pain on reading this? Alas! That so many brave soldiers', noble companions', affectionate brothers', and dearest friends' history, death and memory, are all told in this sad, yet heroic

verse.

COMPANY K.

THERE is a cap in the closet,
Old, tattered, and blue-

Of very slight value,

It may be, to you:
But a crown, jewel studded,
Could not buy it to-day,
With its letters of honor,

Brave "Co. K."

The head that it sheltered

Needs shelter no more:

Dead heroes make holy

The trifles they wore;

So, like chaplet of honor,

Of laurel and bay,

Seems the cap of the soldier,

Marked "Co. K."

Bright eyes have looked calmly

Its visor beneath,

O'er the work of the Reaper,

Grim Harvester Death!

Let the muster-roll, meagre,
So mournfully say,

How foremost in danger

Went "Co. K.”

Whose footsteps unbroken
Came up to the town,
Where rampart and bastion
Looked threat'ningly down!
Who, closing up breaches,
Still kept on their way,
Till guns, downward pointed,
Faced"Co. K."

Who faltered, or shivered?

Who shunned battle stroke?

Whose fire was uncertain?

Whose battle line broke?

Go, ask it of History,

Years from to-day,

And the record shall tell you,

Not" Co. K."

Though my darling is sleeping

To-day with the dead,

And daisies and clover
Bloom over his head,
I smile through my tears

As I lay it away—
That battle-worn cap,
Lettered" Co. K."