And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain And yellow locks of corn? Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, She meets with smiles our bitter grief, Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eye than ours The hearts that blossom like her flowers, O, give to us in times like these, And make her fields and fruited trees O, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We too would hear the bells of cheer JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Fredericksburg. THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. "Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. "Ezra Kerr!"- and a voice answered, "Here!" "Hiram Kerr!"-but no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. "Ephraim Deane!"- then a soldier spoke: Flapped in the morning wind; the sun In her attic-window the staff she set, Up the street came the rebel tread, 395 Under his slouched hat left and right It shivered the window, pane and sash; The nobler nature within him stirred 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, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. "Freedom!" their battle-cry- Hundreds on hundreds fell; Scorn the black regiment! GEORGE HENRY BOKER. VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD. 397 Vigil Strange I kept on the Field. Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;) Vigil for comrade swiftly slain-vigil I never forget, how as day brightened, VIGIL Strange I kept on the field one night: side that day, One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return'd, with a look I shall never forget; One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reached up as you lay on the ground; Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle; Till late in the night relieved to the place at last again I made my way; Found you in death so cold, dear comrade- found your body, son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;) Bared your face in the starlight - curious the scene-cool blew the moderate night-wind; Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading; well in his blanket, WALT WHITMAN. A Sight in Camp in the Day-break A SIGHT in camp in the day-break gray and dim, Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket, Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fra- Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. grant silent night; But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh.- Curious I halt, and silent stand; Long, long I gazed; Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your Vigil of silence, love, and death-vigil for you, As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole; Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save I faithfully loved you and cared for you living- My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, enveloped well Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet; And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave, I deposited; Ending my vigil strange with that — vigil of night and battle-field dim; Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket: Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grayed hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you, my dear comrade? Then to the second I step. And who are you, my child and darling? Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third-a face nor child, nor old, very Our Fallen Heroes. THE angel of the nation's peace Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum; We see the fruiting fields increase Where sound of war no more shall come. |