"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 slowly is creeping,
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
⁠Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.

There is only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
⁠As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on 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 his children asleep—
⁠For their mother, may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine as brightly as then,
⁠That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmered vows
⁠Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
⁠He dashes oft tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun close up to its place,
⁠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 goes, through the broad belt of light,
⁠Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
⁠Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle—ah! Mary, good-bye!
⁠And the life-blood is ebbing and splashing!

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night,"
⁠No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—
⁠The picket's off duty forever!