Barbara Frietchie, by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) A Quaker and a committed abolitionist.
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,
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,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“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
To life at that woman’s deed and word:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
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.
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 in Frederick town!
Comments by Ira Maine, Man of Letters, Poetry Editor PCBYCP
I include this poem, not for its quality, but as an example of how the 19th century taste for sentimental tosh can live on.
I might add that, back more than half a century ago, we Dublin hooligans could hardly contain our mirth when our teacher, Mr Breen, solemnly intoned this piece, with a markedly exaggerated emphasis at the beginning and end of each line.
It sounded something like, and ponderously slow;
‘UP! From the meadows rich with CAAAAWNNN.
CLear! In the cool September MAAAWNNN…’
Already we reprehensible crew were having difficulty containing ourselves…’
‘THE CLUST!-ered spires of Frederick STAAAANNNNDDDD…
And then, when one of us was selected to declaim in the same manner…well…
“GREEN WALLED! by the hills of MARYLAND!
Barely contained gasps, giggling and explosive spluttering, followed immediately by smacks in the ear and outrage from our lord and master…
The poem is called ‘Barbara Frietchie’ and tells an American Civil War tale of how the advancing Thomas Jonathon ‘ Stonewall’ Jackson was defied by our heroine.
Apparently, legend has it that when the whole town of Frederick had accepted the Confederate General Robert E. Lee as their conqueror, the 90 year old Ms Frietchie took a defiant Union flag upstairs and hung it in plain view, out of her window. Ole Stonewall on spotting it, immediately demanded it be blown to shreds. When the fusillade was done, Barbara (the plucky thing) appeared at the ruined window and bravely gave Jackson a piece of her mind.
Astonished at her bravery, Jackson gave orders that she remain unharmed, saluted her and rode on.
History suggests that the whole story is a fairy tale, a romantic fabrication. I’m inclined to believe history.
Ms Frietchie did exist but Wikipedia has that she was probably asleep when ole Stonewall rode in!
God knows what the truth of it is, but it’s as plain as a pikestaff that there is a fierce need in us for heroines and heroes because we keep on re-inventing them.
God knows what the truth of it is, but it’s as plain as a pikestaff that there is a fierce need in us for heroines and heroes because we keep on re-inventing them.
Perhaps its because, in the end, we need to believe in some form of perfectibility. Perhaps that’s why we invented God.