BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

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

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep,

tree,

the leaves?

THE CUMBERLAND.

MAGNIFICENT thy fate,

Once Mistress of the Seas! No braver vessel ever flung

A pennon to the breeze;

No bark e'er died a death so grand; Such heroes never vessel manned; Your parting broadside broke the wave That surged above your patriot grave; Your flag, the gamest of the game, Sank proudly with you-not in shame, But in its ancient glory; The memory of its parting gleam Will never fade while poets dream; The echo of your dying gun Will last till man his race has run, Then live in Angel Story.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

Fair as the garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee march'd over the mountain-
wall,-

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul'd down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

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 tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. 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,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flush of the morn-
ing light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need;
He stretch'd away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth,

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster The heart of the steed and the heart of the

master

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strain'd to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace
ire,

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring
fray,

With Sheridan only five miles away.

groups

roar,

Telling the battle was on once more,

And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thunder'd along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester roll'd The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd, Making the blood of the listener cold,

troops;

What was done? what to do? a glance

told him both.

Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,

And the wave of retreat check'd its course there, because

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. COME, stack arms, men; pile on the rails; Stir up the camp-fire bright! No growling if the canteen fails: We'll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the Brigade's rousing song

Of Stonewall Jackson's Way. We see him now-the queer slouched hat, Cocked o'er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true.

The "Blue Light Elder" knows 'em well: Says he, "That's Banks; he's fond of shell. Lord save his soul! we'll give him-;"

Well!

That's Stonewall Jackson's Way.

Ah, Maiden! wait, and watch, and yearn, For news of Stonewall's band.

Ah, Widow! read, with eyes that burn,

That ring upon thy hand.
Ah, Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn.
The foe had better ne'er been born,
That gets in Stonewall's Way.

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.