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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 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
The 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 BRIGHT SIDE.

THERE is many a rest in the road of life,

TH

If we only would stop to take it, And many a tone from the better land, If the querulous heart would wake it! To the sunny soul that is full of hope,

And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, The grass is green and the flowers are bright, Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted!
There was never a night without a day,
Or an evening without a morning;
And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.

There is many a gem, in the path of life
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jewelled crown,
Or the miser's hoarded treasure:

It may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother's prayers to Heaven;
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life
A bright and golden filling,

And to do God's will with a ready heart
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate, slender threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then blame Heaven for the tangled ends,
And sit, and grieve, and wonder.

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MARCO BOZZARIS.

T 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; Then wore his monarch's signet ring; Then press'd that monarch's throne- a king: As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden-bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,

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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 conquer'd there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek:

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"
He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke,
And shout, 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 arm'd foe expires;
Strike! for your altars and your fires;

Strike! for the green graves of your sires;

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God, and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd; - but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile when rang their loud 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, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

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