BARBARA FRIETCHIE. SEPTEMBER 6, 1862. 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 When Lee marched over the mountain-wall, 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 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 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 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. |