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Up the street came the rebel tread,
Under his slouch'd hat left and right
“ Halt !”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. “ Fire ! ” out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shiver'd the window, pane, and sash;
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff
She lean'd 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 stirr'd
“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 toss'd
THE LUTIST AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
Had busied many hours to perfect practice.