They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious

town,

And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!"

"But General!"-still persisting, the weeping veteran

cried,

"I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide;

And some, you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least, can I;

So, give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!

"If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command

Put me upon the rampart with the flag-staff in my hand:

No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shell may fly,

I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!

"I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me be given, Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven,

And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,

There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane!'

"And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors

fly,

When shell and ball are screeching, and bursting in

the sky,

If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on

my face,

My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's

place!"

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

(MRS. NORTON.)

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might

say.

The dying soldier falter'd, as he took that comrade's

hand,

And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting

sun.

And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,

The death wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars:

But some were young-and suddenly beheld life's morn decline;

And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,

And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a

cage:

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword,

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's
sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the
Rhine!

"There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,

Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning;

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be

risen

My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison), I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun

light shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seem'd to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk,

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser,-his grasp was childish weak,—

His eyes put on a dying look,—he sigh'd and ceased to

speak:

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,

The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land—was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she look'd down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses

strown;

Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seem'd to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

(JOHN G. WHITTIER.)

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand,
Green-wall'd 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 famish'd rebel horde,

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.