"Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied, A rustling as of wings in flight, But round me, like a silver bell "Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!" J. G. Whittier. CCCXXXII. BARBARA FRIET CHIE. UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall Over the mountains. winding down, Forty flags with their silver stars, Flapped in the morning wind; the sun Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff She leaned far out on the window-sill, "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirred "Who touches a hair of yon gray head All day long through Frederick street All day long that free flag tossed Ever its torn folds rose and fell And through the hill-gaps sunset light Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave Peace and order and beauty draw And ever the stars above look down J. G. Whittier. CCCXXXIII. PRO PATRIA. INSCRIBED TO THE SECOND NEW HAMPSHIRE REGIMENT. HE grand old earth shakes at the tread of the Norsemen, THE Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true; All hail to the stars that are set in their banner! All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue! Hear their hearts' battle-cry, It was Warren's, - 'Tis sweet for our country to die! Lancaster and Coös, Laconia and Concord, Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart young men ; They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil, From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen. As each column wheels by, Hear their hearts' battle-cry, It was Warren's, — 'Tis sweet for our country to die! The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels, Hear their hearts' battle-cry, 'T was Warren's, - 'T'is sweet for our country to die! |