"On either side my foe they own:

One guards through love his ghastly throne, And one through fear to reverence grown.

66

"Nay," Peace implored: yet longer wait; The doom is near, the stake is great;

God knoweth if it be too late.

"Still wait and watch; the way prepare

Where I with folded wings of prayer
May follow, weaponless and bare."

"Too late!" the stern, sad voice replied,
"Too late!" its mournful echo sighed,
In low lament the answer died.

A rustling as of wings in flight,
An upward gleam of lessening white,
So passed the vision, sound and sight.

But round me, like a silver bell
Rung down the listening sky to tell
Of holy help, a sweet voice fell.

"Still hope and trust," it sang; "the rod Must fall, the wine-press must be trod, But all is possible with God!"

J. G. Whittier

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-walls

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

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;

“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 tossed
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. Whither.

CCXCIX.

FALL OF THE INDIAN HEROES.

"THEY come! they come ! the pale-face come !”

The chieftain shouted where he stood,

Sharp watching at the margin wood,

And gave the war-whoop's treble yell,
That like a knell on fair hearts fell .
Far watching from their rocky home.

No nodding plumes or banners fair
Unfurled or fretted in the air;
No screaming fife or rolling drum
Did challenge brave of soul to come;
But, silent, sinew-bows were strung,
And, sudden, heavy quivers hung,
And, swiftly, to the battle sprung
Tall painted braves with tufted hair,
Like death-black banners in the air.

And long they fought, and firm and well,
And silent fought, and silent fell,
Save when they gave the fearful yell

Of death, defiance, or of hate.

But what were feathered flints to fate?
And what were yells to seething lead?
And what the few and feeble feet

To troops that came with martial tread,
And stood by wood and hill and stream
As thick as people in a street,
As strange as spirits in a dream ?

From pine and poplar, here and there.
A cloud, a crash, a flash, a thud,
A warrior's garments rolled in blood,
A yell that rent the mountain air
Of fierce defiance and despair

Did tell who fell, and when, and where,
Then tighter drew the coils around,
And closer grew the battle-ground,
And fewer feathered arrows fell,
And fainter grew the battle-yell,
Until upon the hill was heard

The short, sharp whistle of the bird.