The Household Book of Poetry

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps

Her ancient promise well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps

The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours

Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,-

The hearts that blossom like her flowers,
And ripen like her corn.

O, give to us in times like these,
The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies!

O, give to us her finer ear!

Above this stormy din,

We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Fredericksburg.

THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know,
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow.
"Twas such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars as now were waning overhead.

Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration: on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their
breath;

A signal-rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath;
Hark! the artillery massing on the right,
Hark! the black squadrons wheeling down to
death.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!"- and a voice answered, "Here!" "Hiram Kerr!"-but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed,

And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!"- then a soldier spoke:

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled 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.

395

Under his slouched 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 shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned 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 stirred
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 tost
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.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry-
"Freedom! or leave to die!"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout;
They gave their spirits out,
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod
Rolled in triumphant blood;
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death;
Praying-alas! in vain!-
That they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!
This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
Oh, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,

Scorn the black regiment!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD.

397

Vigil Strange I kept on the Field.

Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain-vigil I never forget, how as day brightened,

VIGIL Strange I kept on the field one night:
When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier

side that day,

One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd, with a look I shall never forget;

One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reached up as you lay on the ground;

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;

Till late in the night relieved to the place at last again I made my way;

Found you in death so cold, dear comrade- found your body, son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;)

Bared your face in the starlight - curious the scene-cool blew the moderate night-wind; Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading;

well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.

WALT WHITMAN.

A Sight in Camp in the Day-break
Gray and Dim.

A SIGHT in camp in the day-break gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near
by the hospital tent,

Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out
there, untended lying,

Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fra- Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. grant silent night;

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh.- Curious I halt, and silent stand;

Long, long I gazed;

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your
side, leaning my chin in my hands;
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours
with you, dearest comrade-not a tear, not a
word;

Vigil of silence, love, and death-vigil for you,
my son and my soldier;

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;

Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save
you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living-
I think we shall surely meet again ;)
Til at latest lingering of the night, indeed just
as the dawn appeared,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, enveloped well
his form.

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet;

And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave, I deposited;

Ending my vigil strange with that — vigil of night and battle-field dim;

Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket:

Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grayed hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?

Who are you, my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step. And who are you, my child and darling?

Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?

Then to the third-a face nor child, nor old, very
calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man, I think I know you-I think this face
of yours is the face of the Christ himself;
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again
he lies.
WALT WHITMAN.

Our Fallen Heroes.

THE angel of the nation's peace

Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum; We see the fruiting fields increase

Where sound of war no more shall come.

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