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.

THE STUDENT.

"I have seen the pale student, bending over his written volume, or studying the exhaustless tomes of nature, until the springs of life were dried up, and--he died!"

"POOR FOOL!" the base and soulless worldling cries,

"To waste his strength for naught,-to blanch his cheek, And bring pale Death upon him in his prime.

Why did he not to pleasure give his days,

His nights to rest, and live while live he might?"
What is't to live? To breathe the vital air,
Consume the fruits of earth, and doze away
Existence? Never! this is living death,-
'Tis brutish life,-base groveling. E'en the brutes
Of nobler nature, live not lives like this.
Shall man, then, formed to be creation's lord,
Stamped with the impress of Divinity, and sealed
With God's own signet, sink below the brute?
Forbid it, Heaven! it can not, must not be!

Oh! when the mighty GOD from nothing brought
This universe,-when at His word the light
Burst forth,—the sun was set in heaven,—
And earth was clothed in beauty; when the last,
The noble work of all, from dust He framed
Our bodies in His image,-when He placed
Within its temple-shrine of clay, the soul,-
The immortal soul,-infused by His own truth,
Did He not show, 'tis this which gives to man
His high prerogative? Why then declare
That he who thinks less of his worthless frame,
And lives a spirit, even in this world,
Lives not as well,-lives not as long, as he
Who drags out years of life, without one thought,-
One hope,-one wish beyond the present hour?

How shall we measure life? Not by the years,-
The months, the days,-the moments that we pass
On earth. By him whose soul is raised abovė

Base worldly things, whose heart is fixed in Heaven,--
His life is measured by that soul's advance,-
Its cleansing from pollution and from sin,-
The enlargement of its powers, the expanded field
Wherein it ranges,-till it glows and burns
With holy joys, with high and heavenly hopes.

When in the silent night, all earth lies hushed
In slumber, when the glorious stars shine out,
Each star a sun,-each sun a central light
Of some fair system, ever wheeling on
In one unbroken round,—and that again.
Revolving round another sun,—while all
Suns, stars, and systems, proudly roll along,
In one majestic, ever-onward course,
In space uncircumscribed and limitless,-
Oh! think you then the undebased soul
Can calmly give itself to sleep,—to rest?

No! in the solemn stillness of the night,
It soars from earth,-it dwells in angels' homes,-
It hears the burning song, the glowing chant,
That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaven with joy!
It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight from earth,
To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God.
And it is joy to muse the written page,
Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul
Of genius; where, in never-dying light,
It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare;

Or where it burns with ray more mild,-more sure,
And wins the soul, that half would turn away
From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours
Of holy joy,-of bliss, so pure, that earth
May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim,
And flicker to extinction; let his cheek
Be pale as sculptured marble,—and his eye
Lose its bright lustre,-till his shrouded frame
Is laid in dust. Himself can never die!

His years, 'tis true, are few,-his life is long;
For he has gathered many a precious gem;
Enraptured, he has dwelt where master minds
Have poured their own deep musings,-and his heart
Has glowed with love to Him who framed us thus,--
Who placed within this worthless tegument

The spark of pure Divinity, which shines

With light unceasing.

Yes, his life is long,

Long to the dull and loathsome epicures,—

Long to the slothful man's-the groveling herds
Who scarcely know they have a soul within,-
Long to all those who, creeping on to death,
Meet in the grave, the earth-worm's banquet-hall,-
And leave behind no monuments for good.

THE TWO ROADS.-By Richter.

Ir was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. He mournfully-raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal-the tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in his anguish :"O, youth, return! O, my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better road!" But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, the days of my wasted life!" He saw a star shoot from Heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. "Behold an emblem of myself!" he exclaimed; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart.

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were

Then he remembered his early companions, who had en tered life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that Heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, Come back, my early days! Come back!''

And his youth did return; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young; his errors only were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny har

vests wave.

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will ery bitterly, but cry in vain, "O, youth, return! O, give me Lack my early days!"

ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, MARCH 7, 1862.
By George H. Boker.

"STAND to your guns, men !" Morris cried;
Small need to pass the word;
Our men at quarters ranged themselves
Before the drum was heard.

And then began the sailors' jests:
"What thing is that, I say?"
"A 'long-shore meeting-house adrift
Is standing down the bay!"

A frown came over Morris' face;
The strange, dark craft he knew:
"That is the iron Merrimac,

Mann'd by a rebel crew.

"So shot your guns and point them straight:
Before this day goes by,

We'll try of what her metal's made."
A cheer was our reply.

"Remember, boys, this flag of ours
Has seldom left its place;

And where it falls, the deck it strikes
Is cover'd with disgrace.

"I ask but this: or sink or swim,
Or live or nobly die,

My last sight upon earth may be
To see that ensign fly!"

Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass
Came moving o'er the wave,
As gloomy as a passing hearse,
As silent as the grave.