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Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green
Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black
gunpowder, Cracking amain !
When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the Sun ! to thee 't is given
To guard the banner of the free,
The harbingers of victory !
Now like smiths at their forges
Round their ears ;
On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fash
ioned fire Through the ranks !
Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave
By angel hands to valor given,
And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet !
Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
When Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurled her standard to the air,
And set the stars of glory there!
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. O say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last
gleaming ? Whose broad stripes and bright stars through
the perilous fight,
O, what a shout there went
Charge !" Trump and drum awoke ;
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
All day long that free flag tost
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
Honor to her ! and let a tear
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Peace and order and beauty draw
And ever the stars above look down
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
THE BLACK REGIMENT.
(May 27, 1863.)
knee to knee,
Down the long dusky line
“Now," the flag-sergeant cried,
Up from the South at break of day,
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
(Written in 1853-1
As when, on Carmel's sterile steep,
The ancient prophet buwed the knee, And seven times sent his servant forth
To look toward the distant sea;
There came at last a little cloud,
Scarce larger than the human hand, Spreading and swelling till it broke
In showers on all the herbless land.
And hearts were glad, and shouts went up,
And praise to Israel's mighty God, As the sear hills grew bright with flowers,
And verdure clothed the valley sod.
Even so our eyes have waited long;
But now a little cloud appears, Spreading and swelling as it glides
Onward into the coming years.
Bright cloud of Liberty ! full soon,
Far stretching from the ocean strand, Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad,
Encircling our beloved land.
Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills,
The glorious boon of love shall fall, And our bond millions shall arise,
As at an angel's trumpet-call.
Then shall a shout of joy go up,
The wild, glad cry of freedom come From hearts long crushed by cruel hands,
And songs from lips long sealed and dumb.
And every bondman's chain be broke,
And every soul that moves abroad In this wide realm shall know and feel The blessed Liberty of God.
JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.
(Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the an cient Platza, August 20, 1823, and expired in the muoment of victory. His last words were : "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.")
At midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ;
In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
And wider still those billows of war
But there is a road from Winchester town,
Under his spurning feet the road
because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was
Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come in her crowning hour, — and then
Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring,
As Eden's garden bird.
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
Heroes in heart and hand.
On old Platæa's day ;
As quick, as far, as they.
That bright dream was his last ;
"Toarms ! they come! the Greek! the Greek !" He woke -- to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast
Bozzaris cheer his band :
God, and your native land !"
They piled that ground with Moslem slain : They conquered but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won ;
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet song and dance and wine, -
Of agony, are thine.
ilus won the battle for the free,
Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee; there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee,
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,
The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.
And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys, –
Talk of thy doom without a sigh ;
That were not born to die.