190

BARBARA FRITCHIE.

Under his slouched 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 shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash;
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 grey 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 noble nature within him stirred
To life, at that woman's deed and word.

"Who touches a hair of yon grey head,
Dies like a dog. March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

All day long the free flag tossed
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 Fritchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raid no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier!

Over Barbara Fritchie'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!

J. Greenleaf Whittier.

WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME.

(AMERICAN CIVIL WAR; 1861-5.)

THERE'S a happy time coming,
When the boys come home.
There's a glorious day coming,
When the boys come home.
We will end the dreadful story
Of this treason dark and gory
In a sunburst of glory,

When the boys come home.

The day will seem brighter
When the boys come home,
For our hearts will be lighter
When the boys come home.
Wives and sweethearts will press them
In their arms, and caress them,
And pray God to bless them-
When the boys come home.

The thinned ranks will be proudest,
When the boys come home;
And their cheer will ring the loudest
When the boys come home.

192

THE MEN OF OLD.

The full ranks will be shattered,
And the bright arms will be battered,
And the battle-standards tattered,
When the boys come home.

Their bayonets may be rusty,
When the boys come home,
And their uniforms dusty,
When the boys come home.
But all shall see the traces
Of battle's royal graces

In the brown and bearded faces,
When the boys come home.

Our love shall go to meet them,
When the boys come home;
To bless them and to greet them,
When the boys come home;
And the fame of their endeavour
Time and change shall not dissever
From the nation's heart for ever,

When the boys come home!

Colonel John Hay.

THE MEN OF OLD.

I KNOW not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force

A ghost of Time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

Still it is true, and over true,

That I delight to close

This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose

On all that humble happiness
The world has since foregone-
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone!

With rights, tho' not too closely scanned,
Enjoyed, as far as known—

With will by no reverse unmanned—

With pulse of even tone

They from to-day and from to-night

Expected nothing more

Than yesterday and yesternight

Had proffered them before.

To them was life a simple art

Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;

A battle whose great scheme and scope

They little cared to know,

Content, as men at arms, to cope

Each with his fronting foe.

Man now his Virtue's diadem

Puts on and proudly wears;

Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them

Like instincts, unawares:

Blending their souls' sublimest needs

With tasks of every day,

They went about their gravest deeds
As noble boys at play.

Modern Poets.

13

194

THE MEN OF OLD.

And what if Nature's fearful wound
They did not probe and bare,

For that their spirits never swooned
To watch the misery there-

For that their love but flowed more fast,
Their charities more free,

Not conscious what mere drops they cast
Into the evil sea.

A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet,

It is the distant and the dim

That we are sick to greet:

For flowers that grow our hands beneath
We struggle and aspire-

Our hearts must die, except they breathe
The air of fresh Desire.

Yet, brothers, who up Reason's hill
Advance with hopeful cheer-

O! loiter not, those heights are chill,
As chill as they are clear;

And still restrain your haughty gaze,
The loftier that ye go,

Remembering distance leaves a haze
On all that lies below.

Lord Houghton.