THE AMERICAN FLAG

And long shall timorous Fancy see

The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee

To shadows and delusions here.

5

Philip Freneau.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

I

WHEN Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there;
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand,
The symbol of her chosen land.

II

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
And see the lightning-lances driven

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,
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 harbingers of victory!

III

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 eye shall brightly turn
Where thy sky-born 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;
Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.

IV

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea

Shall look at once to heaven and thee,

ELEGIAC

And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.

V

Flag of the free heart's hope and home,
By angel hands to valor 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 but falls before us,

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

7

Joseph Rodman Drake.

ELEGIAC

O, IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending!

Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for

aye,

Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending,

Glory that never shall fade, never, O never, away!

O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes

Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,

Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with garlands of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished;

Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there

with her smile;

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished;

Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for

ever;

There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.

O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,

Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear!

Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory

cherish;

We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the

sweet music to hear.

James Gates Percival.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN

DRAKE

GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

MY CHILD

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,

There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine:

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

9

Fitz-Greene Halleck.

MY CHILD

I CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study-chair;

Yet, when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes he is not there!