"Let me of my heart take counsel;
War is not of Life the sum;

Who shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?"
But the drum

Echoed "Come!

Death shall reap the braver harvest," said The solemn-sounding drum.

"But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom!
What if conquest-subjugation—
Even greater ills become?
But the drum

Answered "Come!

You must do the sum to prove it!" said
The Yankee-answering drum.

"What if, mid the cannon's thunder,

Whistling shot and bursting bomb

When my brothers fall around meShould my heart grow cold and numb?" But the drum

Answered "Come,

Better then in death united, than in
Life a recreant-Come!"

Thus they answered-hoping, fearing,
Some in faith, and doubting some,

Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,
Said, "My chosen people, come!"
Then the drum

Lo! was dumb,

For the great heart of the nation,

Throbbing, answered, "Lord, we come!"

THE OLD CONTINENTALS.

THE OLD CONTINENTALS.-GUY HUMPHREY MCMASTER

IN their ragged regimentals
Stood the old Continentals,

Yielding not,

When the Grenadiers were lunging,

And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot;

When the files

Of the isles,

From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant

Unicorn,

And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer,
Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,

And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires;

As the roar

On the shore,

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres

Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,
Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges

Worked the red St. George's

Cannoniers;

And the "villainous saltpetre

Rang a fierce, discordant metre

Round their ears;

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor
On our flanks.

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks !

25

Then the old-fashioned Colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;

And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing

Trumpet loud.

Then the blue
Bullets flew,

And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden

Rifle-breath.

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,
Hurling death!

WOUNDED.

LET me lie down,

Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,-
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:

Let me lie down.

Oh, it was grand!

Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share:
The tempest,-its fury and thunder were there;
On, on, o'er intrenchments, o'er living and dead,
With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead:
Oh, it was grand!

Weary and faint,

Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest
With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought.
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,—
Wounded and faint.

Oh, that last charge!

Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell,
Through without faltering,--clear through with a yell,

Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom,
Like heroes we dashed at the mandate of Doom!

Oh, that last charge!

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

It was duty!

Some things are worthless, and some others so good
That nations who buy them pay only in blood;
For Freedom and Union each man owes a part,

And here I pay my share all warm from my heart:
It is duty!

Dying at last!

My Mother, dear Mother, with meek, tearful eye,
Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye!
Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest:
Dying at last!

I am no saint!

-

But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,-
"Our Father;" and then says, "Forgive us our sins,”-
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say, Amen!

Ah, I'm no saint!

Hark, there's a shout!

Raise me up, comrades! We have conquered, I know!
Up, up on my feet, with my face to the foe!

Ah! there flies the Flag, with its star-spangles bright!
The promise of Glory, the symbol of Right!
Well may they shout.

I'm mustered out!

O God of our Fathers! our Freedom prolong,
And tread down Rebellion, Oppression, and Wrong!
O Land of Earth's hope! on thy blood-reddened sod,
I die for the Nation, the Union, and God!
I'm mustered out!

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.-JOHN G. WHITTIER.

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.

27

Round about them orchards sweep.
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,

Fair as a 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 far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a roval will.