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Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Peace and order and beauty draw
And ever the stars above look down
J. G. Whittier
THE LUTIST AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
ASSING from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To Thessaly I came, and living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
I day by day frequented silent groves
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute
Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes
The challenge; and for every several strain.
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down.
He could not run divisions with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, nor notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice.
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he play'd so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
The bird (ordain'd to be
Music's first martyr) strove to imitate
These several sounds; which when her warbling throat
Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute,
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness
To see the conqueror upon her hearse
To weep a funeral elegy of tears.
He look'd upon the trophies of his art,
Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes; then sigh'd and cried, "Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it.
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was dashing it against a tree,
I suddenly stepp'd in.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
I blush'd to see its foot more soft,
And white, shall I say? than my handThan any lady's of the land.
It was a wondrous thing how fleet
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed;
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin lips to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been