For their mother—may Heaven defend her!
"He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree—
His footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle—'Ha! Mary, good by!'
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing!
"All quiet along the Potomac to-night—