"Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied,
"Too late!" its mournful echo sighed,
In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in flight,
An upward gleam of lessening white,
So passed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!"

J. G. Whittier.

CCCXXXII.

BARBARA FRIET CHIE.

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-walls-

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;

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 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 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.

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!

J. G. Whittier.

CCCXXXIII.

PRO PATRIA.

INSCRIBED TO THE SECOND NEW HAMPSHIRE REGIMENT.

HE grand old earth shakes at the tread of the Norsemen,

THE

Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true;

All hail to the stars that are set in their banner!

All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue!
As each column wheels by,

Hear their hearts' battle-cry,

It was Warren's, - 'Tis sweet for our country to die!

Lancaster and Coös, Laconia and Concord,

Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart young men ; They come from the plough, and the loom, and the anvil, From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and glen. As each column wheels by,

Hear their hearts' battle-cry,

It was Warren's, — 'Tis sweet for our country to die!

The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels,
Watch over our soldiers by day and by night;
And the King of all glory, the Chief of all armies,
Shall love them and lead them who dare to do right!
As each column wheels by,

Hear their hearts' battle-cry,

'T was Warren's, - 'T'is sweet for our country to die!