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LE MARAIS DU CYGNE.
Shame from our hearts
The fraud designed, the purpose dark;
And smite away
The hands we lay Profanely on the sacred ark.
To party claims,
And private aims,
Reveal that august face of Truth,
The age of heaven,
The beauty of immortal youth.
So shall our voice
Swell the deep bass of duty done,
The foul human vultures
Have crept from the dead.
From the hearths of their cabins,
With a vain plea for mercy
No stout knee was crooked;
In the homes of their rearing,
Poor children and wives!
The smith shall not come;
Unyoke the brown oxen,
The ploughman lies dumb.
Wind slow from the Swan's Marsh,
O dreary death train,
With pressed lips as bloodless
As lips of the slain !
Kiss down the young cyelids,
Smooth down the gray hairs;
Let tears quench the curses
That burn through your prayers.
P 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
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,