The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; It touched the tangled golden curls, For near her stood the little boy Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: the brown eyes lower fell, Still memory to a gray-haired man The west-winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run; No longer forward nor behind I plough no more a desert land, Rebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff,- I lay The angel sought so far away The airs of spring may never play Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given: The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong. But smiting hands shall learn to heal, To build as to destroy; That I the more enjoy. All as God wills, who wisely heeds Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; — That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turned me back;— That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Making the springs of time and sense Bowed with her fourscore years and Sweet with eternal good; ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down. In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast; "Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the windowsill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirr'd To life at that woman's deed and word. "Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. All day long through Frederick street All day long that free flag tossed And, through the hill-gaps, sunset light Shone over it with a warm goodnight. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union wave! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town. MAUD MULLER. MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry Looked from her long lashed hazel And listened, while a pleased surprise glee eyes. At last, like one who for delay That I the judge's bride might be! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and cloverblooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain: 66 Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. And she heard the little spring-brock fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, But the lawyers smiled that after-And, gazing down, with timid grace, noon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been." Alas, for maiden, alas, for judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! God pity them both, and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!" Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! "Not with hatred's undertow "Still Thy love, O Christ arisen, [From The Tent on the Beach. - Abraham Davenport.] NATURE'S REVERENCE. THE harp at Nature's advent, strung And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far: Its waves are kneeling on the strand, They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing. The green earth sends her incense |