As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 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 'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country they'd 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.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and the 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.

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.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. The following poem was written by Joseph Rodman Drake, an American poet of great promise who died at the age of twenty-five. His principal poem is "The Culprit Fay."

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.

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 'tis given

To guard the banner of the free,

To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the clouds 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 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 sabers 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 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?

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

FRANCIS MILES FINCH

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. - Francis Miles Finch, lawyer and poet, was born at Ithaca, N. Y., in 1827. He graduated from Yale in 1849, and practiced law in his native town. He wrote many lyrics, but his fame as a poet rests chiefly on the two poems given in this volume, "The Blue and the Gray," and "Nathan Hale."

Y the flow of the inland river,

BY

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory.
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle blood gory,

In the dusk of eternity meet:

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike for the friend and the foe:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor
The morning sun rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray.