Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Filled the pauses of their prayer. Hushed the wounded man his groaning; But to sounds of home and childhood Like the march of soundless music Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, But when the far-off dust-cloud Round the silver domes of Lucknow, O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, Dear to the corn-land reaper 800 BARBARA FRIETCHIE Up from the meadows rich with corn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as the garden of the Lord 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 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, 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; 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, '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 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 All day long that free flag tost Ever its torn folds rose and fell And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 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 And ever the stars above look down 801 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: |