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 Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honour 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 And ever the stars above look down J. G. Whittier. THE LUTIST AND THE NIGHTINGALE. ASSING from Italy to Greece, the tales PASSING 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 I day by day frequented silent groves This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute 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 heart. 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. |