SOMEONE PLEASE HELP THIS IS FOR AN EXAM. Question 2: Barbara Frietchie”by John Greenleaf WhittierUp from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen 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 sunOf noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and rightHe glanced: the old flag met his sight.“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.“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 stirredTo life at that woman’s deed and word:“Who touches a hair of yon gray headDies like a dog! March on!” he said. All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:All day long that free flag tostOver the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that loved it well;And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone 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 tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier. Over Barbara Frietchie’s