BARBARA FRIET CHIE.

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

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one!

Up rose 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 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.

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BARBARA FRIET CHIE.

She leaned far out on the window sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this gray old 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 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.

BARBARA FRIET CHIE.

4I

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 at Frederick town. F. G. Whittier.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

HE stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,

Amidst their tall, ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam ;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,

Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

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The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!
By thousands, on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green forever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves.

Its Country and its God!

Felicia Hemans.