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 at Frederick town!

GENTLY! GENTLY!

Among the wounded was a young soldier whose limbs were fearfully shattered. Though evidently in intense pain, he uttered no cry; but, as the carriers raised the "stretcher" he was on, he whispered, "Gently! gently!"

THOUGH he neither sighs nor groans,

Death is busy with his bones:

Bear him o'er the jutting stones

Gently! gently!

Sisters, faithful to your vow,

Swathe his limbs and cool his brow:

Peace! his soul is passing now

Gently! gently!

He has fallen in the strife!

Tell it to his widowed wife,

And to her who gave him life,

Gently! gently!

Loudly praise the brave who gem
With their blood our diadem:

And their faults-oh, speak of them

Gently! gently!

LANDER.

BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

CLOSE his bleak eyes-they shall no more
Flash victory where the cannon roar;
And lay the battered sabre at his side,

(His to the last, for so he would have died!)
Though he no more may pluck from out its sheath
The sinewy lightning that dealt traitors death.
Lead the worn war-horse by the plumed bier-
Even his horse, now he is dead, is dear!

Take him, New England, now his work is done.
He fought the good fight valiantly-and won.
Speak of his daring. This man held his blood
Cheaper than water for the nation's good.
Rich Mountain, Fairfax, Romney,—he was there.
Speak of him gently, of his mein, his air;
How true he was, how his strong heart could bend
With sorrow, like a woman's, for a friend:
Intolerant of every mean desire:

Ice where he liked not; where he loved, all fire.

Take him, New England, gently. Other days,
Peaceful and prosperous, shall give him praise.
How will our children's children breathe his name,
Bright on the shadowy muster-roll of fame!
Take him, New England, gently; you can fold
No purer patriot in your soft brown mould.

So, on New England's bosom, let him lie,
Sleeping awhile-as if the Good could die!

NOT YET.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

O COUNTRY, marvel to the earth!
O realm of sudden greatness grown!
The age that gloried in thy birth,
Shall it behold thee overthrown?
Shall traitors lay that greatness low?
No, Land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we who wear thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned
To leave their country great and free?
Their sleeping ashes, from below,
Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong
For idle hands in sport to tear,-
For scornful hands aside to throw?
No, by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent flow,

And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh, when they
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,
Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,
"Proud country, welcome to the pit!
So soon art thou, like us, brought low?".
No, sullen groups of shadows, No!

For

now, behold the arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save,—

That mighty arm which none can stay,—
On clouds above and fields below,
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!

In the entire range of loyal song--born to us from the patriotism in the poet heart-there is scarce one so soulstirring, or one that will arrest the attention of the general reader, so much as this by DURIVAGE.

THE CAVALRY CHARGE.

BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

WITH bray of the trumpet
And roll of the drum,
And keen ring of bugles,

The cavalry come.

Sharp clank the steel scabbards,

The bridle-chains ring,

And foam from red nostrils

The wild chargers fling.

Tramp! tramp! o'er the green sward

That quivers below,

Scarce held by the curb-bit

The fierce horses go!
And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons,
The order "Trot out."

One hand on the sabre,
And one on the rein,
The troopers move forward
In line on the plain,
As rings the word "Gallop!"
The steel scabbards clank,
And each rowel is pressed
To a horse's hot flank;

And swift is their rush

As the wild torrents flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

"Charge!" thunders the leader

Like shaft from the bow
Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe
A thousand bright sabres
Are gleaming in air;
A thousand dark horses

Are dashed on the square.

Resistless and reckless

Of aught may betide,

Like demons, not mortals,

The wild troopers ride.