"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. 36 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 66 The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word: Who touches a hair of yon gray head 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 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 40 44 48 52 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! 56 Peace and order and beauty draw And ever the stars above look down John Greenleaf Whittier. 1863. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"— Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. 60 16 Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: (So tight he kept his lips compressed, You looked twice ere you saw his breast "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the 'mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. 24 32 40 1842. Robert Browning. INTO the Devil tavern Three booted troopers strode, From spur to feather spotted and splash'd' Then drew their swords, and roar'd for a toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!" A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,, 8 There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirr'd the crusts, And curs'd old London town; Then wav'd their swords, and drank with a stamp, "God send this Crum-well-down!", The 'prentice dropp'd his can of beer, ! The host turn'd pale as a clout; The ruby nose of the toping squire 2012 16 Then into their cups they flung the crusts, And show'd their teeth with a frown; They flash'd their swords as they gave the toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!" The gambler dropp'd his dog's-ear'd cards, As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, Then into their cups they splash'd the crusts, And leap'd on the table, and roar'd a toast, Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, And the troopers sprang to horse; The eldest mutter'd between his teeth, Hot curses-deep and coarse. In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spurr'd through town, 24 32 With their keen swords drawn and their pis tols cock'd, "God send this Crum-well-down!" Away they dash'd through Temple Bar, Their red cloaks flowing free, 40 Their scabbards clash'd, each back-piece shoneNone lik'd to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled town, Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, "God send this Crum-well-down!” 1857. 48 George Walter Thornbury. |