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16

THE AMERICAN FLAG

And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven.
Child of the sun to thee 't is given
To guard the panner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbinger of victory!

Flag of the brave! Thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal trumpet-tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on,
(Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,)
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy meteor glories burn,
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance
And when the cannon-mouthings loud,
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall,

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,-
There shall thy victor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death!

Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave,
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave,

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,-
The dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look, at once, to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly,
In triumph, o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's only home!
By angel hands to valour given,—
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven!

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe that stands before us?

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And freedom's banner streaming o'er us!

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

BY WM. CULLEN BRYANT.

OUR band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good green wood,

Our tent the cypress tree;

We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.

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SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight,
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again ;

And they who fly in terror, deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil:

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.

With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,

And slumber long and sweetly,

On beds of oaken leaves.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads-
The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide
Across the moonlight plains;
'Tis life to feel the night wind

That lifts their tossing manes.
A moment in the British camp-
A moment-and away

Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And loveliest ladies greet our band,
With kindliest welcoming,

With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms
And lay them down no more

Till we have driven the Briton,
Forever, from our shore.

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A POET'S DAUGHTER

A POET'S DAUGHTER

BY F. G. HALLECK

Written for Miss ***, at the request of her father.

'A LADY asks the minstrel's rhyme.'

A lady asks? There was a time

When, musical as play-bells' chime

To wearied boy,

That sound would summon dreams sublime Of pride and joy.

But now the spell hath lost its sway
Life's first-born fancies first decay,
Gone are the plumes and pennons gay

Of young romance;

There linger but her ruins gray

And broken lance.

'This is no world,' so Hotspur said,

For 'tilting lips' and 'mamets' made,
No longer in love's myrtle shade

My thoughts recline

I'm busy in the cotton trade,

And sugar line.

"Tis youth, 't is beauty asks-the green

And growing leaves of seventeen

Are round her; and, half hid, half seen,
A violet flower:

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