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156

DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.

66

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 stirr'd
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 toss'd
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.

DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.-GEORGE LIPPARD.

FIFTY years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest suburbs

of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed, though his legs were concealed in long military boots.

DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.

157

An aged minister stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man grown old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory forever.

Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle visible between the browslong locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large eyes--vivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, there was something terrible in that face--something so full of unnatural loneliness-unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look! those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air; the death-sweat stands in drops on that bold brow-the man is dying. Throb-throb-throb -beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. “Would you die

in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor.

The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed, in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart: "Will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood: yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves yonder, in place of the flag that waved when I was a child.

"And listen, old man, were I to pass along the streets, as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands, and curse me! The graves in yonder churchyard would shrink from my footsteps; and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood upon my head!"

That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched "the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, but had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Suddenly the dying man arose; he tottered along the floor. With those white fingers, whose nails were blue with the death-chill, he threw open a valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag.

158

DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD.

I

"Look ye, priest! this faded coat is spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his heart. "This coat I wore, when I first heard the news of Lexington: this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of the stars on Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced in the fight of Quebec; and now, am a―let me whisper it in your ear!" He hissed that single burning word into the minister's ear; "Now help me, priest! help me to put on this coat of blue; for you see "-and a ghastly smile came over his face-"there is no one here to wipe the cold drops from my brow: no wife, no child: I must meet death alone; but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear!"

And, while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the face of God. "Faith!" echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow, "Faith! Can it give me back my honor? Look ye, priest there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to his comrades the pleasant story of the eight years' war; there in his royal halls, sits George of England, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, the loss of his colonies! And here am I !—I, who was the first to raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against that king-here am I, dying! oh, dying like a dog!"

The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man, while throb-throb-throb-beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. "Hush! silence along the lines there!" he muttered, in that wild, absent tone, as though speaking to the dead. "Silence along the lines! not a word—not a word, on peril of your lives! Hark you, Montgomery! we will meet in the centre of the town :-we will meet there in victory, or die!-Hist! silence, my men-not a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now on, my boys-now on! Men of the wilderness, we will gain the town! Now up with the banner of the stars-up with the flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the snow falls! Now! now, one more blow, and Quebec is ours!"

And look! his eye grows glassy. With that word on his lips, he stands there ah! what a hideous picture of despair: erect, livid, ghastly; there for a moment, and then he falls!-he is dead! Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor.

THE SOLDIER-BOY.

159

In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy—a sublimity of despair. Who is this strange man lying there alone, in this rude garret: this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up that blue uniform, that faded flag? Who is this being of horrible remorse-this man, whose memories seem to link something with heaven, and more with hell?

Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged minister unrolls that faded flag; it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment: it is a colonel's commission in the Continental army, addressed to BENEDICT ARNOLD. And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall: there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation, lay the corpse of the patriot and the traitor.

Oh, that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right arm from the corpse; and, while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring home that noble arm, and embalm it among the holiest memories of the past. For that right arm struck many a gallant blow for freedom: yonder, at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga-that arm, yonder, beneath the snow-white mountains, in the deep silence of the river of the dead, first raised into light the Banner of the Stars.

THE SOLDIER-BOY.--DR. WILLIAM MAGINN.

I

GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,

In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell

I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood ·
In which its tempering work was done,

As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun :
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,

160

MOLLY MULDOON.

At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,

Are gone with all their flame and noise-
And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by those heartfelt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.

MOLLY

MOLLY MULDOON.

LLY MULDOON was an Irish Girl,
And as fine a one

As you'd look upon

In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.
Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,—
And dark was her hair, but it did not curl;
Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,
But owned that a power o' beauty was there.

Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon
Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,
Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,
But for that in her eye

Which made most of them shy

And look quite ashamed, though they couldn't tell why. Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,

And heart and mind seemed in them blended.

If intellect sent you one look severe

Love instantly leapt in the next to mend it-

Hers was the eye to check the rude,

And hers the eye to stir emotion,
To keep the sense and soul subdued,
And calm desire into devotion.

There was Jemmy O'Hare,
As fine a boy as you'd see in a fair,

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