And Denis raised his arm with slow and deadly aim

When all hell seemed leaping to meet them in thunder and cloud and flame.

'Mid the smoke-'mid splintering shells that glare and shriek and grate

'Mid the battery's bursting blaze-'mid the rifle's flashing hate'Mid the pibroch's savage swell-'mid the trumpet's madd'ning alarms

The Captain's daughter fainted, safe in her frantic father's arms. While with hurricane-roar, and rush, with clang of hoof and steel,

With flame in each rider's eyes, and fire at each charger's heel, With shouts that rose to the sky on vengeance-laden breath, The British squadrons thundered by to the carnival of death. Sabres reddened and gleamed, pistols and carbines rang, Lances shook and flashed, bullets hissed and sang.

Full the payment then of a black and damning debt-
They frighten their dusky babes with tales of that midnight
murder yet.

Prone on his back lay Denis-Denis, the stout of heart,-
Still as she for whom he had played a hero's part.

Dying-alone! Unheeded! What matter? The fight was

won.

He was only a common soldier-besides, his work was done. The sounds o' the vengeful strife aroused death's drowsy ear, He listened-rose on his elbow, and then with a whispered cheer

'Ho, Douglas, Gray-we've beaten that murderin' son of a thafe!

I'm going-What matter?-Hurroo! Sure, the Captain's daughter's safe!"

Only three common soldiers, only three common men,

Giving their lives for a woman, as men have again and again ; Only doing their duty, teaching this lesson anew—

Where'er true woman points the way, true man will dare and do.

Then here's to the gallant three-reckless and rough and brave! And here's to the Captain's daughter, the girl they died to save! And here's to all true women, where'er they are under the

sun

Worthy the toast they well must be for whom such deeds are done.

The Singing Leaves.

A BALLAD.

"What fairings will yo

I.

that I bring?

Said the King to his daughters three;
"For I to Vanity Fair am boun',
Now say what shall they be?"

Then up and spake the eldest daughter,
That lady tall and grand :

"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great,
And gold rings for my hand."
Thereafter spake the second daughter,
That was both white and red:

"For me bring silks that will stand alone,
And a gold comb for my head."

Then came the turn of the least daughter,
That was whiter than thistle-down,
And among the gold of her blithesome hair
Dim shone the golden crown.

"There came a bird this morning,

And sang 'neath my bower eaves,

Till I dreamed, as his music made me,
'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'

Then the brow of the King swelled crimson
With a flush of angry scorn :

"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,
And chosen as ye were born;

“But she, like a thing of peasant race,
That is happy binding the sheaves;"
Then he saw her dead mother in her face,

And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves."

II.

He mounted and rode three days and nights
Till he came to Vanity Fair,

And 'twas easy to buy the gems and the silk,
But no Singing Leaves were there.

Then deep in the greenwood rode he,
And asked of every tree,

"Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf,
I pray you give it me!"

But the trees all kept their counsel,
And never a word said they,
Only there sighed from the pine-tops
A music of seas far away.

Only the pattering aspen

Made a sound of growing rain,
That ever fell faster and faster,
Then faltered to silence again.

"Oh where shall I find a little foot-page
That would win both hose and shoon,
And will bring to me the Singing Leaves,
If they grow under the moon?"

Then lightly turned him Walter the page,
By the stirrup as he ran :

"Now pledge you me the truesome word
Of a king and gentleman,

"That you will give me the first, first thing You meet at your castle-gate,

And the princess shall get the Singing Leaves,
Or mine be a traitor's fate."

The King's head dropt upon his breast
A moment, as it might be ;

'Twill be my dog, he thought, and said,
My faith I plight to thee."

Then Walter took from next his heart
A packet small and thin,

"Now give you this to the Princess Anne,

The Singing Leaves are therein.'

III.

As the King rode in at his castle-gate,
A maiden to meet him ran,

And "

Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried Together, the Princess Anne.

"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he,
"And woe, but they cost me dear!"
She took the packet, and the smile
Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart,
And then gushed up again,

And lighted her tears as the sudden sun
Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened,
Sang: "I am Walter the page,

And the songs I sing 'neath thy window
Are my only heritage."

And the second Leaf
66
sang: But in the land
That is neither on earth or sea,
My lute and I are lords of more
Than thrice this kingdom's fee."
And the third Leaf
And ever it sang,
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,
And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!"
At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,
At the second she turned aside,
At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed
With a rose's red heart's tide.

sang: Be mine! Be mine!"
"Be mine!"

"Good counsel gave the bird," said she, "I have my hope thrice o'er,

For they sing to my very heart," said she,
"And it sings to them evermore."

She brought to him her beauty and truth,
But and broad earldoms three,

And he made her queen of the broader lands
He held of his lute in fee.

Barbara Frietchie.

(Verse printed as Prose.)

Up from the meadows rich with corn, clear in the cool September morn, the clustered spires of Frederick stand green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, apple and peach-tree fruited deep,-fair as a garden of the Lord to the eyes of the famished rebel horde. On that pleasant morn of the early fall, when Lee marched 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, flapped in the morning wind: the sun of noon looked down, and saw not one.-Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, bowed with her fourscore years and ten; bravest of all in Frederick Town, she took up the flag the men hauled 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 slouched hat, left and right, he glanced: the old flag met his sight. "Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"-out blazed the rifleblast. 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 nobler nature within him stirred 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 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 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