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The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly |

streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting

in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was

still there ; O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the

brave?

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde ;

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain wall,

Over the mountains, winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town.

On that 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 ; 'T is the star-spangled banner ! 0, long may it

wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the

brave !

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind ; the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down ;

In her attic-window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

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 footsteps'

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 !

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced : the old flag met his sight. “Halt!"- the dust-brown ranks stood fast; “Fire!" -- out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ;

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desola

tion ! 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, when 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.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag,” she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word :
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

0, what a shout there went From the black regiment !

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well ;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night..

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her ! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of freedom and union, wave !

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE BLACK REGIMENT.

“Charge !" Trump and drum awoke ; Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh ; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel,-All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. “Freedom !” their battle-cry, “Freedom ! or leave to die !” Ah ! and they meant the word, Not as with us 't is heard, Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out, Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, . Whether for weal or woe ; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death ; Praying, — alas ! in vain ! — That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty ! This was what "freedom" lent To the black regiment. Hundreds on hundreds fell; But they are resting well ; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true ! Hail them as comrades tried ; Fight with them side by side ; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment !

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

(May 27, 1863.) DARK as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land, — So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
And the bright bayonet,
Bristling and firmly set,
Flashed with a purpose grand,
Long ere the sharp command
of the fierce rolling drum
Told them their time had come,
Told them what work was sent
For the black regiment.

“Now," the slag-sergeant cried,
“Though death and hell betide,
Let the whole nation see
If we are fit to be
Free in this land ; or bound
Down, like the whining hound, —
Bound with red stripes of pain
In our cold chains again 1”

SHERIDAN'S RIDE. Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,

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Even so our eyes have waited long;

But now a little cloud appears, Spreading and swelling as it glides

Onward into the coming years.

Bright cloud of Liberty ! full soon,

Far stretching from the ocean strand, Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad,

Encircling our beloved land.

Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills,

The glorious boon of love shall fall, And our bond millions shall arise,

As at an angel's trumpet-call.

Then shall a shout of joy go up,

The wild, glad cry of freedom come
From hearts long crushed by cruel hands,

And songs from lips long sealed and dumb.

Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire ;
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ;
What was done, - what to do, -- a glance told

him both,
And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there

because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was

gray, .
By the flash of his eye, and his nostril's play
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
“I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day!”
Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan !
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky, -
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, –
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright :
“Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, - twenty miles away !"

And every bondman's chain be broke,

And every soul that moves abroad In this wide realm shall know and feel

The blessed Liberty of God.

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

[Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, rell ia a night attack upon the Turkis' camp at Laspi, the site of the as. cient Platza, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were : "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain.")

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 ;

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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.

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.

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
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arms to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.
An hour passed on, the Turk awoke :

That bright dream was his last ;
He woke - to hear his sentries shriek,

"Toarms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke -- to die midst flame, and smoke, And shont, 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

llus won the battle for the free,

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee; there is no prouder grave,

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 Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells ; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.

And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys, – And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art freedom's now, and fame's, One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK,

GREECE.

THE “ GIAOUR." CLIME of the unforgotten brave ! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave

Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Shrine of the mighty ! can it be

| Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, That this is all remains of thee?

Rise, fellow-inen! our country yet remains ! Approach, thou craven, crouching slave; By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, Say, is not this Thermopylæ ?

And swear for her to live - with her to die!" These waters blue that round you lave, He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed O servile offspring of the free,

His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, The gulf, the rock of Salamis !

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; These scenes, their story not unknown, Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Arise and make again your own;

Revenge, or death, — the watchword and reply; Snatch from the ashes of your sires

Then pcaled the notes, omnipotent to charm, The embers of their former fires ;

And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm !And he who in the strife expires

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! Will add to theirs a name of fear

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :That Tyranny shall quake to hear,

0, bloodiest picture in the book of Time ! And leave his sons a hope, a fame,

Sarmatia fell, unwert, without a crime ; They too will rather die than shame; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, For Freedom's battle once begun,

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered Though baffled oft is ever won.

spear, Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high ca. Attest it, many a deathless age :

reer; While kings, in dusty darkness hid,

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, Have left a nameless pyramid,

And Freedom shrieked - as Kosciusko fell ! Thy heroes, though the general doom

THOMAS CAMPBELL Have swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land !

MEN AND BOYS. There points thy muse to stranger's eye

The storm is out; the land is roused; The graves of those that cannot die !

Where is the coward who sits well housed ? 'T were long to tell, and sad to trace,

Fie on thee, boy, disguised in curls, Each step from splendor to disgrace :

Behind the stove, 'mong gluttons and girls. Enough, — no foreign foe could quell

A graceless, worthless wight thou must be ; Thy soul, till from itself it fell ;

No German maid desires thee, Yes ! self-abasement paved the way

No Gerinan song inspires thee, To villain-bonds and despot sway.

No German Rhine-wine fires thee. What can he tell who treads thy shore ?

Forth in the van, No legend of thine olden time,

Man by man, No theme on which the muse might soar,

Swing the battle-sword who can. High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime. When, we stand watching, the livelong night, The hearts within thy valleys bred,

Through piping storms, till morning light, The fiery souls that might have led

Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,
Thy sons to deeds sublime,

And there in dreams of rapture sleep.
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,

A graceless, worthless wight, etc. Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,

When hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast, And callous save to crime.

Likc the thunder of God, makes our hearts beat

fast,

Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,
POLAND.

Where trills and quavers tickle the car.
FROM "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

A graceless, worthless wight, etc. Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- When the glare of noonday scorches the brain, veyed,

When our parched lips scek water in vain, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid ; Thou canst make champagne corks fly O Heaven !” he cried, “my bleeding country At the groaning tables of luxury. save !

1 A graceless, worthless wight, etc.

BYRON.

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