JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

[U. S. A., 1795-1820.]

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

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.

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 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 sink 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 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,
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?

JOHN PIERPONT.

[U. s. A., 1785-1866.]

PASSING AWAY.

WAS it the chime of a tiny bell

That came so sweet to my dreaming

ear,

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell

That he winds, on the beech, so mellow and clear,

When the winds and the waves lie to

gether asleep,

And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep,

She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes as silvery quite,

157

That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird

swing);

And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,

And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!"

O, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow;

And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,

Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours

Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,

That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung

This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and of womanly

pride,

That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest

day,

In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away! passing away!"

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade

Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,

Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush

oar,

To catch the music that comes from the

shore?

Hark! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words; as they float, they say,

"Passing away! passing away!"

But no; it was not a fairy's shell,

And this he must do. He may grant, Or may deny; but hear he must.

cast,

Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!
But ye will hear us, first or last.
The thousands that last year ye scorned
Are millions now. Be warned!

warned!

Be

They'd soon be levelled with the dust, And "public feeling" make short workShould he not hear them-with the Turk.

THOMAS HOOD.

[1798 - 1845.]

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread, -
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof! It s, oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If THIS is Christian work!

"Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band;

Band, and gusset, and seam; Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in my dream!

"O men with sisters dear!

O men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A SHROUD as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own!
It seems so like my own

Because of the fast I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work! My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread-and rags:

A shattered roof-and this naked floorA table-a broken chair