We dare not share the negro's trust,
Nor yet his hope deny;

We only know that God is just,
And every wrong shall die.

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,

Fair as the 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

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
East and west and north and south;
Only the village of fishers

Down at the river's mouth;

Only here and there a clearing,
With its farm-house rude and new,
And tree-stumps, swart as Indians,
Where the scanty harvest grew.

No shout of home-bound reapers, No vintage-song he heard, And on the green no dancing feet The merry violin stirred.

"Why should folk be glum," said Keezar,

"When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad?"

Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of God,

And planted a state with prayers,

Hunting of witches and warlocks,
Smiting the heathen horde,
One hand on the mason's trowel,
And one on the soldier's sword!

But give him his ale and cider,
Give him his pipe and song,
Little he cared for church or state,
Or the balance of right and wrong.

"'Tis work, work, work," he muttered, "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" He smote on his leathern apron With his brown and waxer palms.