"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirr'd Ever its torn folds rose and fell And, through the hill-gaps, sunset light 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, Peace and order and beauty draw And ever the stars above look down MAUD MULLER. (J. G. WHITTIER.) Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee But, when she glanced to the far-off town, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And ask a draught from the spring that flowed She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And blushed as she gave it, looking down "Thanks!" said the Judge, a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! "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. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "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: "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words." But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, And the young girl mused beside the well, He wedded a wife of richest dower, 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, But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, And oft, when the summer sun shone hot In the shade of the apple-tree again And, gazing down with timid grace, Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Then she took up her burden of life again, Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! SHAMUS O'BRIEN, THE BOLD BOY OF GLINGALL. (SHERIDAN LEFANOR.) Jist afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, |