With a vain plea for mercy No stout knee was crooked; In the homes of their rearing, Poor children and wives! The smith shall not come; Unyoke the brown oxen, Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh, O dreary death-train, With pressed lips as bloodless As lips of the slain ! Kiss down the young eyelids, Smooth down the gray hairs; Let tears quench the curses That burn through your prayers. UP BARBARA FRIETCHIE. P from the meadows rich with corn, 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; In her attic-window the staff she set, Up the street came the rebel tread, Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, 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, The nobler nature within him stirred All day long that free flag tost Ever its torn folds rose and fell And through the hill-gaps sunset light 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, Peace and order and beauty draw |