XXX. MISSING. Not among the suffering wounded! Yet his mother reads it over, Until through the painful tears Fades the dear name she has called him For these two and twenty years. Round her all is peace and plenty, Soberly the sleek old house-cat Through the window comes the fragrance Of a sunny, harvest morn, Fragment songs from distant reapers, And the rustling of the corn. And the rich breath of the garden Sitting there within the sunshine, Blind to sunshine, dead to fragrance, Of her noble-browed first-born. How he left her in the spring-time, With his young heart full of flame, And his light and supple frame. How with tears his eyes were brimming, Missing! Still a hope to cheer her; With the victor army shouting, With the clamor of the drum. So through all the days of autumn, Or she will hush the household, Far away, through all the autumn, That the battle-storm has made, With the rust upon his musket, XXXI. 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 Oh, it was grand! Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share: Weary and faint, Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest Oh, that last charge! Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell, It was duty! Some things are worthless, and some others so good That nations who buy them pay only in blood; And here I pay my share all warm from my heart: Dying at last! My Mother, dear Mother, with meek, tearful eye, 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 Ah, I'm no saint! Hark, there's a shout! Raise me up, comrades! We have conquered, I know! Ah! there flies the Flag, with its star-spangles bright! I'm mustered out! O God of our Fathers! our Freedom prolong, And tread down Rebellion, Oppression, and Wrong! XXXII. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. Up from the meadows rich with corn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall, Over the mountains winding down, Forty flags with their silver stars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, Up the street came the rebel tread, Under his slouched hat, left and right, "Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; Quick as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window sill, "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,But spare your country's flag !" she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirred "Who touches a hair of yon gray head, All day long through Frederick street All day long that free flag tossed |