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LOYALTY AND HEROISM.

GOING HOME.

N. P. WILLIS.

BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast,

Fling out your field of azure blue; Let star and stripe be westward cast,

And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! Strain home! O lithe and quivering spars ! Point home, my country's flag of stars !

NATIONAL HYMN.

FRANCIS KEY SMITH.

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim's pride,
From every mountain side

Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee -
Land of the noble free

Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break-

The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God, to thee,
Author of liberty,

To thee we sing :
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light;
Protect us by thy might,

Great God, our King.

MY NATIVE LAND.

WALTER SCOTT.

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

“This is my own — my native land!”

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go, mark him well! For him no minstrel's raptures swell. High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

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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.

THE SEMINOLE'S DEFIANCE.

G. W. PATTEN.

BLAZE, with your serried columns ! I will not bend

the knee; The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now

is free! I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest

muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning

of its blow. I've scared you in the city; I've scalped you on the plain; Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my

leaden rain! I scorn your proffered treaty; the pale-face I defy; Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood” my

battle-cry!

Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their

all;

I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall.
I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his

groan. Ye've trailed me through the forest; ye’ve tracked me

o'er the stream; And struggling through the everglade your bristling

bayonets gleam. But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you,

his spear;

6. Come not here!”

Think ye to find my homestead ?-I gave it to the fire. My tawny household do you seek ? —I am a childless

sire. But, should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have

and good; I live on hate, – 'tis all my bread; yet light is not my

food. I loathe you with my bosom !

bosom! I scorn you

scorn you with mine

eye!

And I'll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you

till I die! I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your

slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath

the wave!

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

THEODORE O'HARA.

EXTRACT.

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet

That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.

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