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,

Toward 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: “Ha! Mary, good-by!”

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night—