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 toss'd
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 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!

ICHABOD.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore!

Revile him not !—the Tempter hath
A snare for all;

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall.

O! dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night!

Scorn! Would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven?

Let not the land, once proud of him,
Insult him now;

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonour'd brow!

But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,

A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make!

Of all we loved and honour'd, nought
Save power remains,-

A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:

When faith is lost, when honour dies,
The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;

Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!

TELLING THE BEES.*

HERE is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;

You can see the gap in the old wall still,

And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

*See Note 15.

There is the house, with the gate red-barr'd,
And the poplars tall;

And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun;

And down by the brink

Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'er-run,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;

And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings, of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm

Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside Farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care

From my Sunday coat

I brush'd off the burrs, and smooth'd my hair,
And cool'd at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had pass'd,

To love, a year;

Down through the beeches I look'd at last

On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.

I can see it all now,-the slantwise rain

Of light through the leaves,

The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,—

The house and the trees,

The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,—
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,

Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listen'd: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;

For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself" My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:

Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps

The fret and the pain of his age away."

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,

The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sang to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on:-

66

Stay at home, pretty bees! fly not hence:
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

THE RIVER PATH.

No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;

For from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,-
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.