« ForrigeFortsæt »
In her attic-window the staff she set,
Up the street came the rebel tread,
61 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 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
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, Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
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,
Honor to her! and let a tear
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
And ever the stars above look down
COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION 43
THE beaver cut his timber
With patient teeth that day, The minks were fish-wards, and the crows
Surveyors of highway,
When Keezar sat on the hill-side
Upon his cobbler's form,
To keep his waxed-ends warm.
And there, in the golden weather,
He stitched and hammered and sung ; In the brook he moistened his leather,
In the pewter mug his tongue.
Who brewed the stoutest ale,
In the coin of song and tale.
Who dress the hills of vine, The tales that haunt the Brocken
And whisper down the Rhine.
Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples
Flashing in foam and spray, —