On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:

'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more?

Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freeman shall stand

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Francis Scott Key

Eighth Grade

THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

Julia Ward Howe

BREATHES THERE A MAN

Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentrated all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott

BUGLE SONG

The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark; oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Oh sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O Love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, or field, or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever:

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

MORNING

FROM CYMBELINE

Hark, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies:
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;

With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise.

William Shakespeare

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells,
Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here, Captain, dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

Thy ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

4

Walt Whitman

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

O little town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;

Yet in thy dark streets shineth

The everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night

For Christ is born of Mary,

And, gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth!

And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently,
The wonderous gift is given !
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.

No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive Him still,

The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem!
Descend to us, we pray;

Cast out our sin, and enter in,
Be born in us to-day.

We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;

Oh, come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

Phillips Brooks

There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storm the forts to-morrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon,-

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.