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The west-winds blow, and, singing low,

I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's
hand

Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,
And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given:

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,

The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;
The graven flowers that wreathe the
sword

Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,

To build as to destroy;
Nor less my heart for others feel
That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told!

Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,

His chastening turned me back;·

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood.

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. Making the springs of time and sense Bowed with her fourscore years and

Sweet with eternal good;

That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight; -

That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges overpast,
In purple distance fair;-

That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west-winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE,

UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The cluster'd 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.

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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 goodnight.

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.

MAUD MUller.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth

Of simple beauty and rustic health.

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Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

Singing, she wrought, and her merry Looked from her long lashed hazel And listened, while a pleased surprise

glee

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eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed:
"Ah me!

That I the judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,

And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;

My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,

And the baby should have a new toy each day.

He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,

He watched a picture come and go: And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes

"And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe Looked out in their innocent surprise.

the poor,

And all should bless me who left our door."

The judge looked back as he climbed

the hill,

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,

He longed for the wayside well instead,

And saw Maud Muller standing still. And closed his eyes on his garnished

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,

Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air

Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:

rooms,

To dream of meadows and cloverblooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain:

"Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,

"No doubtful balance of rights and And many children played round

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But the lawyers smiled that after-And, gazing down, with timid grace,

noon,

When he hummed in court an old

love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,

Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

She felt his pleased eyes read her

face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney"Not with hatred's undertow
lug,
Doth the Love Eternal flow;
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and Every chain that spirits wear

mug,

A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,

Saying only," It might have been."

Alas, for maiden, alas, for judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both, and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies

Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!

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Crumbles in the breath of prayer;
And the penitent's desire
Opens every gate of fire.

"Still Thy love, O Christ arisen,
Yearns to reach these souls in prison!
Through all depths of sin and loss
Drops the plunimet of Thy cross!
Never yet abyss was found
Deeper than that cross could sound!"

[From The Tent on the Beach. - Abraham Davenport.

NATURE'S REVERENCE.

THE harp at Nature's advent, strung
Has never ceased to play:
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given,

By all things near and far:
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense

up

From many a mountain shrine:
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud,

Or low with sobs of pain,
The thunder-organ of the cloud,
The dropping tears of rain.

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