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 bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers 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 eye shall brightly turn
To where the 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.

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 frightened waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each 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 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?

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

[Born at Guilford, Connecticut, July 8, 1790; died at Guilford, Connecticut, November 19, 1867]

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.

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.

MARCO BOZZARIS

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; Then wore his monarch's signet ring: Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood,

There had the glad earth drunk their blood
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air

"To arms! 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 As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike- till the last armed foe expires; Strike for your altars and your fires;

Strike for the green graves of your sires;

God and your native land!

They fought like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain,
They conquered but Bozzaris fell,

-

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their proud hurrah.

And the red field was won ;

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke:
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;

Come when the heart beats high and warm

With banquet-song and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible - the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought-
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought-
Come in her crowning hour-and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

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