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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 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!

MR. WHITTIER TO HIS FRIENDS,

ON THE CELEBRATION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY.

Beside that mile-stone where the level sun,
Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low rays
On word and work irrevocably done,
Life's blending threads of good and ill outspun,
I hear, oh friends! your words of cheer and praise,
Half doubtful if myself or otherwise.
Like him who, in the old Arabian joke,
A beggar slept and crowned Caliph woke.
Thanks not the less. With not unglad surprise
I see my life-work through your partial eyes;
Assured, in giving to my home-taught songs
A higher value than of right belongs,
You do but read between the written lines
The finer grace of unfulfilled designs.
12th mo., 1877.

MY TWO SISTERS.
FROM "SNOW-BOUND."

There, too, our elder sister plied
Her evening task the stand beside;
A full, rich nature, free to trust,
Truthful and almost sternly just,
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,
And make her generous thought a fact,
Keeping with many a light disguise
The secret of self-sacrifice.

O, heart sore tried! thou hast the best
That Heaven itself could give thee-rest;
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things!
How many a poor one's blessing went
With thee beneath the low green tent
Whose curtain never outward swings!

As one who held herself a part
Of all she saw, and let her heart

Against the household bosom lean,
Upon the motley-braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,

Now bathed within the fadeless green
And holy peace of Paradise.

Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,

Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,
Do those large eyes behold me still?
With me one little year ago:-

The chill weight of the winter snow

For months upon her grave has lain; And now, when summer south-winds blow And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I see the violet sprinkled sod Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak The hill-side flowers she loved to seek, Yet following me where'er I went With dark eyes full of love's content. The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills The air with sweetness; all the hills Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; But still I wait with ear and eye For something gone which should be nigh, A loss in all familiar things,

In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. And yet, dear heart! remembering thee, Am I not richer than of old?

Safe in thy immortality,

What change can reach the wealth I hold? What chance can mar the pearl and gold

Thy love hath left in trust with me?
And while in life's late afternoon,

Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
Shall shape and shadow overflow,

I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,

Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

We sit beneath their orchard-trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees,
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages that they read,

Their written words we linger o'er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,

No step is on the conscious floor!

Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust
(Since He who knows our need is just),
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.
Alas for him who never sees

The stars shine through his cypress-trees!
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith,
The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever lord of Death,

And Love can never lose its own!

THE POET'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF.
FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."

And one there was, a dreamer born,
Who, with a mission to fulfil,
Had left the Muses' haunts to turn

The crank of an opinion-mill,
Making his rustic reed of song

A weapon in the war with wrong,

Yoking his fancy to the breaking-plough

That beam-deep turned the soil for truth to spring

and grow.

Too quiet seemed the man to ride
The wingéd Hippogriff Reform;
Was his a voice from side to side
To pierce the tumult of the storm?

A silent, shy, peace-loving man,
He seemed no fiery partisan

To hold his way against the public frown, The ban of Church and State, the fierce mob's hounding down.

For while he wrought with strenuous will
The work his hands had found to do,
He heard the fitful music still

Of winds that out of dream-land blew.
The din about him could not drown
What the strange voices whispered down;
Along his task-field weird processions swept,
The visionary pomp of stately phantoms stepped.

The common air was thick with dreams,-
He told them to the toiling crowd;
Such music as the woods and streams
Sang in his ear he sang aloud;

In still, shut bays, on windy capes,

He heard the call of beckoning shapes, And, as the gay old shadows prompted him, To homely moulds of rhyme he shaped their legends grim.

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

O friends, with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,

Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of men I bear.

I trace your lines of argument;
Your logic, linked and strong,

I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds;
Against the words ye bid me speak,
My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod;

I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.

Ye praise his justice; even such His pitying love I deem;

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We rise, and all, the distant and the near,

Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear;
We kneel, how weak, we rise, how full of power!
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,
Or others that we are not always strong;
That we are ever overborne with care;
That we should ever weak or heartless be,
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer,
And joy, and strength, and courage are with thee?

SPRING.

Who was it that so lately said,

All pulses in thine heart were dead,

Old earth, that now in festal robes Appearest, as a bride new wed?

Oh, wrapped so late in winding-sheetThy winding-sheet, oh! where is fled?

Lo! 'tis an emerald carpet now,

Where the young monarch, Spring, may tread.

He comes, and, a defeated king, Old Winter to the hills is fled.

The warm wind broke his frosty spear, And loosed the helmet from his head;

And he weak showers of arrowy sleet From his strongholds has vainly sped.

All that was sleeping is awake, And all is living that was dead.

Who listens now can hear the streams Leap tinkling from their pebbly bed,

Or see them, from their fetters free, Like silver snakes the meadows thread.

The joy, the life, the hope of earth, They slept awhile, they were not dead: O thou, who say'st thy sore heart ne'er With verdure can again be spread;

O thon, who mournest them that sleep, Low lying in an earthly bed;

Look out on this reviving world,
And be new hopes within thee bred!

Arthur Williams Austin.

AMERICAN.

Born in Charlestown, Mass., in 1807, Austin was graduated at Cambridge in 1825, studied law, and in 1856 was made Collector of the port of Boston under President Buchanan. An excellent Greek scholar, he has made some accurate and graceful translations from "The Greek Anthology." In 1875 he published a volume entitled "The Woman and the Queen: a Ballad, and other Specimens of Verse."

FROM "THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY."

RUFINUS: TO RHODA.

Rhoda! to thee I send a garland, wove

From flowers late gathered by these hands of mine:
Here lily, celandine, and budding rose,
The tender daffodil, the violet blue!

When crowned with these, abate thy lofty pride:
Thyself, the flowers, the garland, all will fade!

SIMMIAS: EPITAPH ON SOPHOCLES.

Around this place where Sophocles reclines,
Let ivy silent creep, and fruitful vines;
Let palm-trees overhang his honored tomb,
And flowering roses shed a sweet perfume:
Gifted with pleasant words and precepts wise,
Muses and Graces were his choice allies.

MARIANUS: TO A STATUE OF CUPID CROWNED.

Where is that bow of yours, the wings, the dart,
And those sharp arrows meant to pierce the heart?
Why on your head a wreath, why garlands hold?
"Stranger, think not I am of common mould;
Not of the earth, nor son of earthly joy,-
No common Venus owns me for her boy.
To the pure mind of man I send a flame,
And lead his soul to heaven, from whence it came;
Four garlands from the Virtues I entwine,
And, above all, the prize of Wisdom mine!".

MARIANUS: THE LOVE-GROVE OF AMASIA.

This Grove of Love hath charms; the western breeze Sends soothing murmurs through the well-pruned

trees;

On dewy meadow sparkling violets grow,
And from a triple source the waters flow;
And here at noonday Iris rolls its wave,
That fair-haired wood-nymphs may at pleasure lave:
Exposed on all sides to the Sun's caress,
Here fruitful vine and fertile olive bless;
Here all around the nightingales are heard,-
Crickets responding to the tuneful bird:

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