Poems in War Time, vol 3, part 4 | Page 6

find mete and bound?In Providence.
Full long our feet the flowery ways?Of peace have trod,?Content with creed and garb and phrase:?A harder path in earlier days?Led up to God.
Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear,?Are made our own;?Too long the world has smiled to hear?Our boast of full corn in the ear?By others sown;
To see us stir the martyr fires?Of long ago,?And wrap our satisfied desires?In the singed mantles that our sires?Have dropped below.
But now the cross our worthies bore?On us is laid;?Profession's quiet sleep is o'er,?And in the scale of truth once more?Our faith is weighed.
The cry of innocent blood at last?Is calling down?An answer in the whirlwind-blast,?The thunder and the shadow cast?From Heaven's dark frown.
The land is red with judgments. Who?Stands guiltless forth??Have we been faithful as we knew,?To God and to our brother true,?To Heaven and Earth.
How faint, through din of merchandise?And count of gain,?Have seemed to us the captive's cries!?How far away the tears and sighs?Of souls in pain!
This day the fearful reckoning comes?To each and all;?We hear amidst our peaceful homes?The summons of the conscript drums,?The bugle's call.
Our path is plain; the war-net draws?Round us in vain,?While, faithful to the Higher Cause,?We keep our fealty to the laws?Through patient pain.
The levelled gun, the battle-brand,?We may not take?But, calmly loyal, we can stand?And suffer with our suffering land?For conscience' sake.
Why ask for ease where all is pain??Shall we alone?Be left to add our gain to gain,?When over Armageddon's plain?The trump is blown?
To suffer well is well to serve;?Safe in our Lord?The rigid lines of law shall curve?To spare us; from our heads shall swerve?Its smiting sword.
And light is mingled with the gloom,?And joy with grief;?Divinest compensations come,?Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom?In sweet relief.
Thanks for our privilege to bless,?By word and deed,?The widow in her keen distress,?The childless and the fatherless,?The hearts that bleed!
For fields of duty, opening wide,?Where all our powers?Are tasked the eager steps to guide?Of millions on a path untried?The slave is ours!
Ours by traditions dear and old,?Which make the race?Our wards to cherish and uphold,?And cast their freedom in the mould?Of Christian grace.
And we may tread the sick-bed floors?Where strong men pine,?And, down the groaning corridors,?Pour freely from our liberal stores?The oil and wine.
Who murmurs that in these dark days?His lot is cast??God's hand within the shadow lays?The stones whereon His gates of praise?Shall rise at last.
Turn and o'erturn, O outstretched Hand?Nor stint, nor stay;?The years have never dropped their sand?On mortal issue vast and grand?As ours to-day.
Already, on the sable ground?Of man's despair?Is Freedom's glorious picture found,?With all its dusky hands unbound?Upraised in prayer.
Oh, small shall seem all sacrifice?And pain and loss,?When God shall wipe the weeping eyes,?For suffering give the victor's prize,?The crown for cross.
BARBARA FRIETCHIE.
This poem was written in strict conformity to the account of the incident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy sources. It has since been the subject of a good deal of conflicting testimony, and the story was probably incorrect in some of its details. It is admitted by all that Barbara Frietchie was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemed gentlewoman, intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that when the Confederates halted before her house, and entered her dooryard, she denounced them in vigorous language, shook her cane in their faces, and drove them out; and when General Burnside's troops followed close upon Jackson's, she waved her flag and cheered them. It is stated that May Qnantrell, a brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave her flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has been a blending of the two incidents.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,?Clear in the cool September morn.
The clustered spires of Frederick stand?Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,?Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord?To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall?When Lee marched 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,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun?Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old 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.
She leaned