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Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouch'd 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 shiver'd the window, pane, and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf;

She lean'd 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,
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
Sounded the tread of marching feet :

All day long that free flag toss'd
Over the heads of the rebel host.

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THE LUTIST AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

PASSIN
ASSING from Italy to Greece, the tales

Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting Paradise.
To Thessaly I came, aud living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul; as I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute
With strains of strange variety and harmony
Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge
To the clear cloristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flock'd about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard. I wonder'd too.
A nightingale,
Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
The challenge ; and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down.
He could not run divisions with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, nor notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study

Had busied many hours to perfect practice.
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he play'd so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
The bird (ordain'd to be
Music's first martyr) strove to imitate
These several sounds; which when her warbling throat
Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute,
And brake her lieart. It was the quaintest sadness
To see the conqueror upon her hearse
To weep a funeral elegy of tears.
He look'd upon the trophies of his art,
Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes; then sigh'd and cried,
“ Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it.
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end :” and in that sorrow,
As he was dashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stepp'd in.

Ford.

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