"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!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

THE HEART OF THE WAR.
PEACE in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a murmur of low tones
And sighs from hearts oppressed,
Merging in prayer at last, that brings
The balm of silent rest.

"I've closed a hard day's work, Marty,
The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,
And with the little one.
But he is sleeping sweetly now,
With all our pretty brood;
So come and sit upon my knee,
And it will do me good.

"Oh, Marty! I must tell you all
The trouble in my heart,

And you must do the most you can
To take and bear your part.
You've seen the shadow on my face,
You've felt it day and night;
For it has fill'd our little home,
And banished all its light.

"I did not mean it should be so,
And yet I might have known

That hearts that live as close as ours

Can never keep their own.

But we are fallen on evil times,

And, do whate'er I may,

My heart grows sad about the war,
And sadder every day.

"I think about it when I work,

And when I try to rest,

And never more than when

Is pillowed on my breast;

your head

For then I see the camp-fires blaze,

And sleeping men around,

Who turn their faces toward their homes,

And dream upon the ground.

"I think about the dear, brave boys,

My mates in other years,

Who pine for home and those they love, Till I am choked with tears.

With shouts and cheers they marched away On glory's shining track;

But, ah! how long, how long they stay,-
How few of them come back!

"One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship
And perished in its flames.

And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life;

And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
Have left the deadly strife.

"Ah, Marty! Marty! only think
Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this weary war,—
Brave heroes, every one!
Oh, often, often, in the night,

I hear their voices call:

'Come on and help us! Is it right
That we should bear it all?

"And when I kneel and try to pray,
My thoughts are never free,
But cling to those who toil and fight
And die for you and me.

And when I pray for victory,

It seems almost a sin

To fold my hands and ask for what
I will not help to win.

“Oh, do not cling to me and cry,
For it will break my heart;

I'm sure you'd rather have me die
Than not to bear my part.

You think that some should stay at home

To care for those away;

But still I'm helpless to decide

If I should go or stay.

For, Marty, all the soldiers love,

And all are loved again;

And I am loved, and love, perhaps,
No more than other men.

I cannot tell-I do not know

Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.

"I feel I know-I am not mean;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal
That which is fair and right;
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel
And pray to Heaven for light.".

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And, underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds
From whom all joy is flown,

Who kneels among her sleeping babes,
And weeps and prays alone!

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

CLARIBEL'S PRAYER.

THE day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills,

While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell;

But waking Blue-eyes smiled: "'Tis ever as God

wills;

He knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 'tis well; Praise God!" cried always little Claribel.

Then sunk she on her knees; with eager, lifted

hands

Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to

tell:

"O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands, And make her free, whatever hearts rebel; Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

"And, Father," still arose another pleading prayer, "O save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell! Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid streaming hair,

Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well; Amen! Praise God!" wept little Claribel.

"But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done,

And up the crimson sky the shouts of freemen swell,

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun
Than he whose golden hair I love so well;
Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night,

The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell; "Oh, shout!" the Herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light;

""Tis victory! Oh, what glorious news to tell!" "Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel.

"But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight And in the fiery rain? Oh, fought he brave and

well?"

"Dear child," the Herald said,

braver sight

66 there was no

Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and

shell;'

"Praise God!" cried trembling little Claribel.