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“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I beard, 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 remem
bered 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 list him, but the spark of life had
fed,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, caloly on that dreadful scene her pale light
seem'd to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the
(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.
['p 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.
['p 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 tlag,” 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.
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.) Mand 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.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
Thanks!" said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
From a fairer band was never quatred."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the baying, 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;
And listened, while a please surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel 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 brotber 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 hangry 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, And his mother vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune;