Not in vain, Confessor old, Unto us the tale is told Of thy day of trial;105 Every age on him who strays From its broad and beaten ways Pours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear, Angel comfortings can hear,110 O'er the rabble's laughter; And while Hatred's fagots burn, Glimpses through the smoke discern Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet115 Share of Truth was vainly set In the world's wide fallow[327]; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow.120
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer From the Future borrow; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight's sky of rain,125 Paint the golden morrow!
[BARBARA FRIETCHIE]
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,5 Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,