SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

167

SPRING AT THE CAPITAL.

THE poplar drops beside the way
Its tasselled plumes of silver gray;

The chestnut points its green brown buds, impatient for the laggard May.

The honeysuckles lace the wall;
The hyacinths grow fair and tall;

And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous bees are over all.

Down-looking in this snow-white bud,

How distant seems the war's red flood!

How far remote the streaming wounds, the sickening scent of human blood!

Nor Nature does not recognize

This strife that rends the earth and skies;

No war-dreams vex the winter sleep of clover-heads and daisy-eyes.

She holds her even way the same,
Though navies sink or cities flame;

A snow-drow is a snow-drop still, despite the nation's joy or shame.

When blood her grassy altar wets,

She sends the pitying violets

To heal the outrage with their bloom, and cover it with soft regrets.

O, crocuses with rain-wet eyes,

O, tender-lipped anemones,

What do you know of agony, and death and blood-won

victories?

No shudder breaks your sunshine trance,

Though near you rolls, with slow advance,

Clouding your shining leaves with dust, the anguish-laden ambulance.

Yonder a white encampment hums;
The clash of martial music comes;

And now your startled stems are all a-tremble with the jar of drums.

Whether it lessen or increase,

Or whether trumpets shout or cease,

Still deep within your tranquil hearts the happy bees are humming “Peace!”

O flowers! the soul that faints or grieves,
New comfort from your lips receives;

Sweet confidence and patient faith are hidden in your healing leaves.

Help us to trust, still on and on,

That this dark night will soon be gone,

And that these battle-stains are but the blood-red trouble of the dawn

Dawn of a broader, whiter day

Than ever blessed us with its ray,

A dawn beneath whose purer light all guilt and wrong

shall fade away.

Then shall our nation break its bands,

And, silencing the envious lands,

Stand in the searching light unshamed, with spotless robe, and clean, white hands.

A WOMAN'S WAITING.

169

A WOMAN'S WAITING.

UNDER the apple-tree blossoms, in May,

We sat and watched as the sun went down; Behind us the road stretched back to the east, Ou, through the meadows, to Danbury town.

Silent we sat, for our hearts were full,
Silently watched the reddening sky,
And saw the clouds across the west
Like the phantoms of ships sail silently.

Robert had come with a story to tell,

I knew it before he had said a word,

It looked from his eye, and it shadowed his face,
He was going to march with the Twenty-third.

We had been neighbors from childhood up,

Gone to school by the self-same way, Climbed the same steep woodland paths, Knelt in the same old church to pray.

We had wandered together, boy and girl,
Where wild flowers grew and wild grapes hung;
Tasted the sweetness of summer days

When hearts are true, and life is young.

But never a love-word had crossed his lips,
Never a hint of pledge or vow,

Until, as the sun went down that night,
His tremulous kisses touched my brow.

"Jenny," he said, "I've a work to do
For God and my country and the right,
True hearts, strong arms, are needed now,
I dare not stay away from the fight.

“Will you give me a pledge to cheer me on,

A hope to look forward to by-and-by? Will you wait for me, Jenny, till I come back?” - I will wait,” I answered, " until I die.”

The May moon rose as we walked that night Back through the meadows to Danbury town, And one star rose and shone by her side, — Calmly and sweetly they both looked down.

The scent of blossoms was in the air,

The sky was blue and the eve was bright, And Robert said, as he walked by my side, "Old Danbury town is fair to-night.

“I shall think of it, Jenny, when far away,
Placid and still 'neath the moon as now,-
I shall see it, darling, in many a dream,
And you with the moonlight on your brow.”

No matter what else were his parting words,
They are mine to treasure until I die,
With the clinging kisses and lingering looks,
The tender pain of that fond good-bye.

I did not weep, — I tried to be brave,
I watched him until he was out of sight,
Then suddenly all the world grew dark,

And I was blind in the bright May night.

Blind and helpless I slid to the ground,

And lay with the night-dews on my hair, Till the moon was down and the dawn was up, And the fresh May morn rose clear and fair.

BARBARA FRITCHIE.

Till there came a message over the wires,
Chilling the air of the August day.

"Killed in a skirmish eight or ten; "Wounded and helpless;

as many more,

All of them our Connecticut men,
From the little town of Danbury, four.

But I only saw a single name,

Of one who was all the world to me;
I promised to wait for him till I died,
O God, O Heaven, when will it be !

171

Harpers' Magazine.

Barbara Fritchie'

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

UP from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,

*

* The incident upon which this ballad is founded took place literally as it is told by the poet upon the occupation of Frederick in Maryland on the second march northward of the insurgent forces. The heroine, as I am informed by Mr. Whittier, was ninety-six years old at the time of the occurrence. The title of the ballad on this page is a fac-simile of her autograph signature to a receipt which is in my possession.