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The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun

Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were min-
gled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow

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To right and left, he lingered; — As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt

The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because."

the brown eyes lower

fell,
“Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

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The west-winds blow, and, singing low,

I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's
hand

Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff,- I lay
Aside the toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given:

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,

The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong;

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword

Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,

To build as to destroy;
Nor less my heart for others feel

That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told!

Enough that blessings undeserved Have marked my erring track; — That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,

His chastening turned me back;—

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood,

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, Making the springs of time and sense Bowed with her fourscore years and Sweet with eternal good;

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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 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 windowsill,

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 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 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 goodnight.

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.

MAUD MULLER.

MAUD 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.

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Singing, she wrought, and her merry Looked from her long lashed hazel And listened, while a pleased surprise

glee

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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

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The judge looked back as he climbed

the hill,

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And saw Maud Muller standing still. And closed his eyes on his garnished

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rooms,

To dream of meadows and cloverblooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain:

66

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,

And many children played round her door.

But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain,

Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone

hot

On the new-mown hay in the meadow

lot.

And she heard the little spring-brock fall

Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein,

But the lawyers smiled that after-And, gazing down, with timid grace,

noon,

When he hummed in court an old

love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,

Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

She felt his pleased eyes read her

face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,

Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,

Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas, for maiden, alas, for judge, For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both, and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies

Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!

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"Not with hatred's undertow
Doth the Love Eternal flow;
Every chain that spirits wear
Crumbles in the breath of prayer;
And the penitent's desire
Opens every gate of fire.

"Still Thy love, O Christ arisen,
Yearns to reach these souls in prison!
Through all depths of sin and loss
Drops the plummet of Thy cross!
Never yet abyss was found
Deeper than that cross could sound!"

[From The Tent on the Beach. - Abraham Davenport.]

NATURE'S REVERENCE.

THE harp at Nature's advent, strung
Has never ceased to play:
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given,

By all things near and far:
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense

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