The American Flag.-J. R. Drake.
WHEN Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurl'd 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 call'd 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 cloud 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 dimm'd 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 wreathes 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 splendours fly,
In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
For ever 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!
To a City Pigeon.-N. P. WILLIS.
STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove !
Thy daily visits have touch'd my love!
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat;
And my joy is high,
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.
Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves?
Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?
How can'st thou bear
This noise of people-this sultry air?
Thou alone of the feather'd race
Dost look unscared on the human face;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And "the gentle doye"
Has become a name for trust and love.
A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou 'rt named with childhood's earliest word!
Thou'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild
In the prison'd thoughts of the city child!
And thy glossy wings
Are its brightest image of moving things.
Thou art set apart
It is no light chance.
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair
That else were seal'd in this crowded air.
I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.
Come, then, ever, when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves,
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low sweet music out!
I hear and see
Lessons of Heaven, sweet bird, in thee!
LESSON LXXVI.
The First of March.-HORACE SMITH.
THE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
And Earth's beginning now, in her veins to feel the blood,
Which, warm'd by summer's sun, in th' alembic of the vine,
From her fount will overrun, in a ruddy gush of wine.
The perfume and the bloom, that shall decorate the flower,
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower;
And the juices, meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits,
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.
How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground,
Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound;
How each thing upward tends, by necessity decreed,
And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed !
The Summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned day
Is commissioned to remark whether Winter holds his
Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing, Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for Spring.
Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth, till her dreams are all of flowers,
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers;
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves,
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves.
The vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave;
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their
wing,
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring.
The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, And the feather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, O thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee!
Where is He ?-HENRY NEELE.
"Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"
"AND where is he?" Not by the side
Of her whose wants he loved to tend;
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,
Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend.
That form beloved he marks no more;
Those scenes admired no more shall see;
Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair-but where is he?
No, no, the radiance is not dim
That used to gild his favourite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still;
But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his garden be,
The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper, where is he?
His was the pomp, the crowded hall!
But where is now his proud display?
His-riches, honours, pleasures, all
Desire could frame;-but where are they?
And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea,
Surrounded by admiring bands,
Seemed proudly strong,-and where is he?
The church-yard bears an added stone,
The fire-side shows a vacant chair;
Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there;
The life has gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been, no more shall be;
The well-known form, the welcome tread,
O where are they, and where is he?
LESSON LXXVIII.
Character of Schiller.-THOMAS CARLYLE.
LITERATURE was his creed, the dictate of his conscience; he was an Apostle of the Sublime and Beautiful, and this his calling made a hero of him. For it was in the spirit of a true man that he viewed it, and undertook to cultivate it; and its inspirations constantly maintained the noblest temper in his soul.
The end of literature was not, in Schiller's judgment, to
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