The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light: Only, gazing alone, To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown And height above unknown height. Still we say as we go,-- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." The Past is over and fled; Named new, we name it the old; Thereof some tale hath been told, But no word comes from the dead; Whether at all they be, Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go,-- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." What of the heart of hate That beats in thy breast, O Time?-- Red strife from the furthest prime, And anguish of fierce debate; War that shatters her slain, And peace that grinds them as grain, And eyes fix'd ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. Still we say as we go,-- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." What of the heart of love That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?-- Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above; Thy bells prolong'd unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go,-- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings; And oh! the song the sea sings Is dark everlastingly. Our past is clean forgot, Our present is and is not, Our future's a seal'd seedplot, And what betwixt them are we?-- We who say as we go,-- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." LXXVI. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.--1807- Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,-- Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee march'd 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, Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.