Flag Poem

HARPER'S WEEKLY.

[MARCH 22, 1862.

182

THE GOOD OLD FLAG.

LOOK to your Banner, Boys! Proudly it waves!

Traitors who trampled it

Cold in their graves.

Far over land and sea

Swells the glad cry, "Union and Victory!

Praise God on high!"

Look on its gorgeous folds Sprinkled with light,

Gleaming 'midst battle-wreaths

Sable as night

Bright as the stars that glow

Through the dark storm,

Bright as through murky clouds

Struggles the morn.

Look on its emblems bright-

Emblems we love;

Fondly we clustered them,

Nailed them above:

Red for our Fathers' blood,

White for their fame,

Blue for our Nation's troth:

Pure be its name!

North winds are fondling it

Gently above;

South winds are greeting it

With hope and love.

Waft it from East to West,

Softly each breeze;

Shout for its gallant deeds, Rivers and seas!

Look o'er its crimson fields, Furrowed by death!

Trampled the bleeding sods,

Where the hot breath, Scorching our very souls,

Treason exhaled,

Wrought in us hero's might Never we failed.

List to its words of peace, Pure as the song

Heaven is whispering

All the night long!

"Break not the golden cord, Brotherly love;

Mar not this foretaste of Union above!"

Swear then to guard it, Boys,

Ever from stain!

Let of suspicion's breath

No taint remain.

Ever in Freedom's van

Onward it bear; Ever for equal laws

All things to dare.

When in death's giant grasp

Nations shall fall,

Spread out our Starry Flag

Then as their pall;

God of the true and brave,

Then let it rise,

Symbol of Liberty,

Home to the skies!

NAZARETH, PA., March, 1862.

CAPTAIN HARRY'S VALENTINE.

FEBRUARY 14, 1861. Does any body remember what sort of a day it was? Whether it shone with sunshine, or lowered with gray skies? Whether it pelted cold wintry rain, or sent down shrouds of snow? Whether it hardened its hoary heart in walls of icy adamant, or ran out meltingly in rippling rivers and flowing tides? Does any body remember? I remember. It was such a day as sometimes dawns in mid-winter to delude us with spring fancies of budding trees and springing grass. The sky was blue, the air was soft, and birds piped in the warm rays of the sun. Under this blue sky, in this soft air, and genial sunshine of this day of February 14, 1861, Captain Harry, of the United States service, and commander of the vessel lying at anchor in the harbor of —: Captain Harry, whose rarely mentioned surname shall not betray him here, paced up and down the long, narrow deck of his vessel with no less a personage than Commodore Carey's daughter, Miss Josephine Carey, who in company with her father and perhaps a dozen others, visits the ship on this visiting day.

"Pooh! Commodore Carey indeed! Whoever heard of Commodore Carey?"

Of course you never did. Who said that you had? Did you expect I was going to give you real names with my real people and facts?

Josephine Carey was a pretty little girl. She looked like a child as she walked there beside Captain Harry, with his big shoulders and martial aspect. Very like a child she seemed too. A half-shy glance out of her eye, and a hovering smile flitting about her lips—lips of velvet crimson; and prettiest of all such an enchanting blush, rising and rising, falling and falling, just as tides rise and fall. But young, and shy, and tender as she appeared, it was said that the girl fairly wound Commodore Carey round her little finger. That she carried a high hand in the old house on - Street, where she was sole and only mistress, in default of a mother who died at her birth. That she coaxed and wheedled her father even while she ruled him, to such a degree that he invariably ended his remonstrances with a "God bless the child!" And all the household seemed to partake of this spirit indeed; for while that young middy, who called her

cousin, Dick Carey, would tell with a rueful face how she fairly outwitted him on more than one occasion, he would as invariably end with a remark as emphatic, though certainly not as reverent as the Commodore's,

"Ah, but she's a jolly girl, Sir!"

It is clearly proven then, that Captain Harry had a dangerous companion as he walked the deck that day.

As the waves murmured and sparkled before him, so this little Loreley murmured and sparkled at his side.

Would she wind him round her finger as easily as she had the Commodore? We shall see. Leaning over the gunwale he asks,

"Do you know, Miss Josephine, what day this is?"

"What day? let me think," counting, "one, two, three," on three little fingers. "Yes, it is Thursday. Why?" looking up expectantly.

"I do not mean what day of the week, what day of the month?"

She counted again, and Captain Harry watched the pretty fingers at their pretty work.

"It is the 14th of February."

"And the 14th of February is St. Valentine's day. Do you remember, Josephine?"

"Remember what, Captain Harry?"

Captain Harry bit his lip at the reproof administered in her address. In his earnestness remembering what she acknowledged forgotten, he had called her "Josephine."

The cool little lady brought him to his senses with two words, "Captain Harry."

For a moment he was indignant, not at her reproof, though it hurt, but the forgetfulness or pretense of it. Another moment and looking down at her he got over his indignation. The shy, soft eyes were giving him a sidelong glance, and the faintest color was rising on her cheek.

She did remember! But still she shook her head. "Remember what, Captain Harry?"

Five seconds agone Captain Harry would have sworn that he would never have answered that question. Five seconds agone Captain Harry had felt himself rebuffed and aggrieved by it. Now, on its repetition, his heart was softened to such a degree that he eagerly made answer. And all for a pair of brown eyes meeting his shyly, and a pink color coming on a face that defied suspicion by its innocence. That was the spell.

He made answer, and there was the least tinge of reproach in his tone.

"You have not forgotten, Miss Josephine, what you said to use one week ago to-night?"

"Said? Ah, one says so many things, how can I recall all that I may have said a week ago? A week is an age."

He groaned inwardly; but the pretty fair face kept on its shy, appealing look, and again hope rose within his heart.

"Perhaps—perhaps it's a girl's way," he thought. So he went on: "One week ago to-night Miss Josephine Carey declined answering a question that I proposed to her. On this day she promised a reply."

Very low was his voice, very quiet was his mien; but Captain Harry was getting sorely impatient under this girl's way.

"A week ago—a week ago," she murmured, at length, as if in a dream. "I know the horns and harps were playing, the 'hundred lights were blazing,' and I walked with Captain Harry in the grand hall. He was very kind, he was very courteous, and I liked him well. He asked me a question, but he would not take an answer then; and I told him he should have it for a valentine on the 14th of February. But there are other 14ths of February to come, I trust, for both Captain Harry and myself."

"Josephine! Josephine! you can not mean to put me off in this way? But no, I shall never—"

What was he about to say? Why did he not say it? Why? Because something dropped upon his hand with a light touch that thrilled his very soul. A little pink palm, soft and warm.

He turned, flushed and expectant. She was not trifling with him! She would give him his answer—and she liked him well.

She began with the very words again.

"Captain Harry, I like you well, but I do not think I love you yet."

Then with a tinge of impatience, "Why did you disturb our pleasant relations? You men spoil every thing by haste. Well, I will give you your answer now if you wish, but I warn you—" He stayed her with a word. Then, half in disdain at his own weakness, he asks, "You have known me a year, Miss Josephine. How long must you know me to find out if you love me?"

"A year! And you want me to spend a lifetime with you. Truly your sex are consistent. Give me another year, and on this very day twelve-months I promise you my answer."  "On this very day twelvemonths our country may be plunged in civil war, and in her service I may be out of the reach of your answer."

She smiled. This gloomy suggestion, in her estimation, was only brought forward for the occasion. She replied,

"I promise you, nevertheless, that on this very day twelvemonths you shall have it."

"I may be dead; what then?" he said, bitterly. "Then you will not need it."

He reddened, bit his lip, and exclaimed, "Miss Josephine Carey, you are harder hearted than a stone, and I am a fool to drift round at your will!" "You need not."

" No, I need not. That is very true; but I do it. My fate be on my own head. So I wait—still wait." Suddenly he faced her.

"Josephine, you are not trifling with me?"

She was perfectly in earnest now; perhaps she had been all along. "Why should you think I trifle when I say I like you well, but do not love you yet. Do I not here admit much—enough surely for now? I am young-just twenty. Next week I go to Europe.

Let me see more of the world. At the end of the year, if I can say 'Yes,' it will be safer for you and for me. Perhaps at the end of the year you will not care for 'Yes' or 'No.' Then, of course, it will have been much safer."

"Then I shall be beyond all care. I shall not change if you do."

She laughed a little, half scornfully.

"Bah, the world is full of change."

"And you, where did you learn that bitter lesson so young?" he questioned.

"By the change about me. Half the married people I know are ennuye. They have verified the proverb of hasty marrying. I do not mean to make the mistake. And I ask you to wait a year before I give myself to you for all the years of my life."

"Ah," and he shook his head ruefully, "if I only knew that at the end of the year you would give yourself to me for all the years of your life!"

She threw him a rapid glance, in which lurked depths of meaning; then dropping two or three pebbles into the water, she said quickly, "`Ce qui est differe n'est pas perdu.'"

"Jo!" called the Commodore from the gangway. She turned, but her companion had taken her hand at this last sentence.

"Then I may hope for the best?" he eagerly says. "No, no, hope nothing; how perverse you are!"

"Jo!" again called the paternal voice.

" And you will give me nothing before we part?" urged the suitor. " No gage d'amitie even: I shall not see you again; we sail to-morrow; you know."

She slipped her hand out of its little white mitten, leaving the latter only in his possession. A mischievous smile, a blush, and murmuring softly, "Gage d'amitie," she sped away to her father, who for the fourth time called her name.

Holding his gage d'amitie, Captain Harry stood a moment the picture of puzzled annoyance.

"She has given me the mitten after all. I had a great mind to throw it overboard. Bah, what a fool that girl makes of me!"

He shook it savagely, and out tinkled a ring—"a ring of amethyst." He had seen her wear it often. Did she mean this too for a "gage d'amitie," or was it accident? He chose to believe the former; and cheered not a little by the double gage, which so deftly turned the gage d'amitie to gage d'amour, he returned to his duties with a lighter heart.

Long before the next year came, the civil war he had prophesied was here.

In Paris with her aunt, Mrs. Carey—that boy Dick's mother—Josephine heard the news. A letter from her father summoned her home. The trunks were packed, the passports visaed, the passage secured, when a sudden and violent illness attacking Mrs. Carey, obliged them to remain behind. This delay was a sore trial to Josephine. She loved her father, as her father loved her, with little less than idolatry. Any day might see him offering up his life for a sacrifice to his country. Did she think as well of another? Did she remember a day in February when the sky was blue, the air was soft, and the sun shone kindly? Did she remember her promise of that day, and the gloomy prophecy whereat she had laughed?

It was spring now, months might elapse before she would again see her native land. In that time what might not happen? What dire disaster on sea and shore? what

"—shout and groan and sabre stroke?"

Ah, it was fearful!

All her talk was of "papa, dear papa; "but did her thoughts never recur to him who said, "I may be out of the reach of your answer then!" It is possible; but in Paris—that splendid Paris which was so full of enchantments, so full of allurements--she had found a companion who had given a keener charm to all that was charming; who had sung when she sung, and danced when she danced, and now did not fail to grieve when she grieved.

A year ago Miss Josephine Carey would have laughed in your face, if you had told her that Livingston Raynal would have proved such a companion to her. But a year ago they were in America; now they were in Paris. It made a vast difference. A year ago she had met him in company with spirits of a different order. Men whose lives were moved by the springs of "to-day." Earnest in the present work. Eager for advancement. Interested in all practical schemes of action and endeavor.

In this company Livingston Raynal was out of joint. His smooth cultivation lacked the edge of earnestness, his tastes looked effeminate, his idleness selfish by contrast. But the scene changes. Instead of this atmosphere of the New World, there is the gracious gayety, the careless ease of the fascinating Parisien salons. There is no hurry here. The stream flows evenly and brilliantly, and Life is set to dance-music, while the sun shines and the fountains play. And here has Livingston Raynal his true orbit, where he swings, a star. And here Josephine Carey and the star find each other. Pleasant finding it is, as I have said, but do you suppose that Miss Josephine has surrendered her whole heart to this pleasure? You shall see.

One, two, three months went by, and Aunt Catherine's illness had settled into a slow disease which admitted of no removal. She had been a mother to Josephine, and she was her sole relative in Paris. Could she leave her?

One two, three months, and all her talk was of "papa," until a night in August she sat in their salon reading aloud to her one auditor—Mr. Raynal —a letter just received from her father. It was full of vivid description and suggestion. It told of past conflict and defeat, of present preparation on sea and shore, the gathering battalions and the armed fleet.

As the girl read her color came and went, her eyes darkened and glowed, her lips quivered and smiled.

Her listener watched her, with his fastidious sense of charm fully awakened; and Josephine thought, as she met the gaze, that his heart was stirred—as hers was stirred—with patriotic ardor. Stopping at last, she fell from her high flight of

' glory into the sad dreams of a woman who can only watch and wait. Doubly sad to her it seemed then, waiting there, miles and miles away. And as she thought, something rose in her throat. She struggled with herself, but rebellious nature would have its way, and a brief passion of tears relieved the passion of regret.

Mr. Raynal was all alert in an instant. He was very, very sorry.

"What was it—no bad news, surely?"

The eyes wept on uncomforted. The lips refused to answer.

Mr. Raynal grew more solicitous.

What was the matter with dear Miss Josephine?

"Dear Miss Josephine" suddenly glanced upon him from behind her handkerchief with a vehemence that startled and amazed him, answering, quite sharply, that it was matter enough, she should think, to be removed at such a distance from her father in times like these.

Mr. Raynal had made a mistake. Perhaps, if he had been a Frenchman, he would have shrugged his shoulders at it, and in endeavoring to make it better would have made it worse. But Mr. Raynal did not shrug his shoulders, and in endeavoring to remedy his blunder he met with signal success. Asking her pardon like a gentleman, but like a gentleman who was hurt, gravely and with dignity. Whereat Miss Josephine, who had been used to torment better men all her days, actually drew in her little sharp horns, and felt much as if she had made herself ridiculous. So much for Mr. Raynal's power. How far would it extend?

Then the gentleman essaying consolation, patched his blunder up with earnest words of sympathy.

He was sure that before many weeks her aunt would be able to sail. Nothing would be done until then. The movements of the army were slow.

Listening, the tears stopped, and the sun shone in her smile. Listening, she fell a-dreaming—pleasant dreams, for the smile deepened, the eves beamed. Out of this dream she says, "I must be there on the 14th."

" On the 14th—what then, Miss Josephine?" She laughed lowly, recalled to herself.

" On the 14th—on the 14th—ah, Monsieur Raynal, on the 14th the die must be cast."

He regarded her with a puzzled air. A moment ago a tender, sorrowful thing, all tears and regrets; now a smiling sprite, dealing in riddles.

What did she mean? he smilingly asked.

"Only that the 14th—the 14th of February, Monsieur, is St. Valentine's day, and I must be home to keep a promise—a St. Valentine promise;" and she laughed again her little low laugh, out of the folds of her lace shawl, into which she had dropped her face.

Livingston Raynal was possessed of keen perceptions. Though almost out of date now—except for boys and girls, or for some merry jest-he knew well enough what the day signified, and quickly guessed the nature of her promise. Going deeper still, he read the "Yes" and "No" swinging in the balance. "Yes" and " No"—which should it be? If he asked himself this question, he answered it as speedily, and it would seem satisfactorily; for a new look of animation came into his face in a moment.

In this Paris life, if the girl before him had learned to know him better, so, too, had his knowledge of her deepened. He saw her here fond of splendor and fashion and show; fond of flattery and power and position. It would be hard to give them up. Could she be willing to go back to the old life—and, further yet, end it all by becoming the wife of a captain in the navy, with little more than his pay for an income?

Perhaps Mr. Raynal asked himself these questions also, for he was no stranger to the poor naval captain who had "hung round" Miss Josephine Carey for the past two years. And perhaps, if he asks them, he feels very confident that "flattery and power and position," and Livingston Raynal, may carry the day.

But do not be too hasty in your conclusions, Monsieur Raynal. Underneath all this love of "flattery and power and position" may lie something of different texture—something akin to the nature of that stanch old republican, Commodore Carey.

Ah! no; there is no need of haste. Monsieur Raynal has plenty of time. His country's call is not for him. The clubs, the balls, the galleries of art, the play, and all the grand procession of Paris pleasures, which occupy him, yet leave him time to pursue still another object. Plenty of time.

Yet he does not delay unnecessarily. He who can be so agreeable infuses on this evening a more vivid charm into speech and manner.

Graceful, handsome, and brilliant, he became the essence of grace and beauty and brilliance; and the fair little Josephine, sitting opposite, looks and listens and admires! And listening, she occupies her fingers in some pretty feminine work which is half play—weaving in and out a lacy mass of fine-spun cotton, for some useless use of toilet or tray.

Keeping the thread of the brilliant talk, she at last drops the thread of cotton from its slender chain of connection. A half-unconscious exclamation, and she goes winding out the blunder into skeins again. Her companion bends forward and offers his services; and contrary to the usual custom, in this coquetish co-operation Monsieur imprisons the hands of Mademoiselle with the countless threads of snow-white cotton.

Round and round he winds the raveled thread—round and round, meshing the little hands in the soft skeins, meshing the little heart into subtler skeins of soft-voiced eloquence. Round and round, until the thread catches against the fretted setting of a jet ring—a jet ring, diamond-sparkling, on her finger. He leans forward to disentangle, a smile upon his lips.

"Mademoiselle has established a picket-guard." "Whereon King Cotton is held in durance vile," she returns.

A blush rises to her cheek in the pause that follows, as the larger hand delays against the lesser in the process of disentanglement.