New World

and Old Giory

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.

Under his slouch 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.

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.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

New World and Old Glory

New World

and Old

Two Veterans

The last sunbeam

Glory Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath,

On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking

Down a new-made double grave.

Lo! the moon ascending,

Up from the east the silvery round moon,
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom

moon,

Immense and silent moon.

I see a sad procession,

And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles,
All the channels of the city streets they're flood-

ing,

As with voices and with tears.

I hear the great drums pounding,

And the small drums steady whirring,
And every blow of the great convulsive drums
Strikes me through and through.

For the son is brought with the father,
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they

fell,

Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them).

Now nearer blow the bugles,

And the drums strike more convulsive,

And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has

faded,

And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

In the eastern sky up-buoying,

The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
('Tis some mother's large transparent face
In heaven brighter growing).

O strong dead-march you please me!
O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe

me!

O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to

burial!

What I have I also give you.

The moon gives you light,

And the bugles and the drums give you music,
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,

My heart gives you love.

WALT WHITMAN. 1

New World and Old

Glory

New

World

Stand by the Flag!

and Old Stand by the Flag! Its stars, like meteors gleamGlory

ing,

Have lighted Arctic icebergs, southern seas, And shone responsive to the stormy beaming Of old Arcturus and the Pleiades.

Stand by the Flag! Its stripes have streamed
in glory,

To foes a fear, to friends a festal robe,
And spread in rhythmic lines the sacred story
Of Freedom's triumphs over all the globe.

Stand by the Flag! On land and ocean billow
By it your fathers stood unmoved and true,
Living, defended; dying, from their pillow,
With their last blessing, passed it on to you.

Stand by the Flag! Immortal heroes bore it
Through sulphurous smoke, deep moat and
armed defence;

And their imperial Shades still hover o'er it,
A guard celestial from Omnipotence.

JOHN NICHOLS WILDER.