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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 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 10 O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and war's desolation ! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued
land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
15 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.
On Linden when the sun was low,
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.
The Harp that once through Tara's Halls
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
As if that soul were fled.
So glory's thrill is o'er,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells :
Its tale of ruin tells.
The only throb she gives
To show that still she lives.
GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON
Childe Harold's Farewell to England
Fades o’er the waters blue;
And shrieks the wild sea mew.
My native land — Good-night.
To give the morrow birth;
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
My dog howls at the gate.
“Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong;
More merrily along."
“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
But thee — and One above.
“My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again. "Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;