Poems in War Time, vol 3, part 4 | Page 7

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 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 tost?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!?1863.
WHAT THE BIRDS SAID.
THE birds against the April wind?Flew northward, singing as they flew;?They sang, "The land we leave behind?Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew."
"O wild-birds, flying from the South,?What saw and heard ye, gazing down?"?"We saw the mortar's upturned mouth,?The sickened camp, the blazing town!
"Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps,?We saw your march-worn children die;?In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps,?We saw your dead uncoffined lie.
"We heard the starving prisoner's sighs,?And saw, from line and trench, your sons?Follow our flight with home-sick eyes?Beyond the battery's smoking guns."
"And heard and saw ye only wrong?And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn flocks?"?"We heard," they sang, "the freedman's song,?The crash of Slavery's broken locks!
"We saw from new, uprising States?The treason-nursing mischief spurned,?As, crowding Freedom's ample gates,?The long estranged and lost returned.
"O'er dusky faces, seamed and old,?And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil,?With hope in every rustling fold,?We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil.
"And struggling up through sounds accursed,?A grateful murmur clomb the air;?A whisper scarcely heard at first,?It filled the listening heavens with prayer.
"And sweet and far, as from a star,?Replied a voice which shall not cease,?Till, drowning all the noise of war,?It sings the blessed song of peace!"
So to me, in a doubtful day?Of chill and slowly greening spring,?Low stooping from the cloudy gray,?The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing.
They vanished in the misty air,?The song went with them in their flight;?But lo! they left the sunset fair,?And in the evening there was light.?April, 1864.
THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.
A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE," A. D. 1154-1864.
A STRONG and mighty Angel,?Calm, terrible, and bright,?The cross in blended red and blue?Upon his mantle white.
Two captives by him kneeling,?Each on his broken chain,?Sang praise to God who raiseth?The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,?"Wear this," the Angel said;?"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign,?The white, the blue, and red."
Then rose up John de Matha?In the strength the Lord Christ gave,?And begged through all the land of France?The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castle?Before him open flew,?The drawbridge at his coming fell,?The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand,?And paid his righteous tax;?And the hearts of lord and peasant?Were in his hands as wax.
At last, outbound from Tunis,?His bark her anchor weighed,?Freighted with seven-score Christian souls?Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,?Her sails in tatters hung;?And on the wild waves, rudderless,?A shattered hulk she swung.
"God save us!" cried the captain,?"For naught can man avail;?Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks?Her rudder and her sail!
"Behind us are the Moormen;?At sea we sink or strand?There's death upon the water,?There's death upon the land!"
Then up spake John de Matha?"God's errands never fail!?Take thou the mantle which I wear,?And make of it a sail."
They raised the cross-wrought mantle,?The blue, the white, the red;?And straight before the wind off-shore?The ship of Freedom sped.
"God help us!" cried the seamen,?"For vain is mortal skill?The good ship on a stormy sea?Is drifting at its will."
Then up spake John de Matha?"My mariners, never fear?The Lord whose breath has filled her sail?May well our vessel steer!"
So on through storm and darkness?They drove for weary hours;?And lo! the third gray morning shone?On Ostia's friendly towers.
And on the walls the watchers?The ship of mercy knew,?They knew far off its holy cross,?The red, the white, and blue.
And the bells in all the steeples?Rang out in glad accord,?To welcome home to Christian soil?The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legend?By bard and painter told;?And lo! the cycle rounds again,?The new is as the old!
With rudder foully broken,?And sails by traitors torn,?Our country on a midnight sea?Is waiting for the morn.
Before her, nameless terror;?Behind, the pirate foe;?The clouds are black above her,?The sea is white below.
The hope of all who suffer,?The dread of all who wrong,?She drifts in darkness and in storm,?How long, O Lord I