A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun, Proclaim'd, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun; While shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead!

Then, louder than the roaring storm, peal'd forth the stern command,

"Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band,

Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rush'd onward, through the flood,

And upward o'er the rising ground they mark'd their way in blood!

The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his postWhile, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host! Then, turning, as the rallying ranks with murderous fire, replied, They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide!

The fallen! And the first who fell in that unequal strife Was he whom Mercy sped to save when Justice claim'd his life

The pardon'd soldier! And, while yet the conflict raged around While yet his life-blood ebb'd away through every gaping

wound

While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimm'd his

eye

He call'd his comrades to attest he had not fear'd to die!

And, in his last expiring breath, a prayer to Heaven was sent That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President!

U

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

P from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand,
Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland.

1

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach trees fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, When Lee march'd over the mountain wall,

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

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

Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men haul'd 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'd 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 shiver'd the window pane and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf.

She lean'd 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 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 toss'd
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.

ONCE

THE RAVEN.

NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. "'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-doorOnly this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door · Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door: That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I open'd wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream

before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!"

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "LENORE!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely there is something at my window-lattice; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore: 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd

he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-doorPerch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-doorPerched and sat, and nothing more.

Then, this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, “art sure

no craven;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly

shore,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber-door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,
With such name as 66
Nevermore!"

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he utter'd-not a feather then he flutter'd—
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown

before:

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore!"

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,