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LOYALTY AND HEROISM.
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 !
FRANCIS KEY SMITH.
My country, 'tis of thee,
Of thee I sing;
Let freedom ring.
My native country, thee -
Thy name I love;
Like that above.
Let music swell the breeze,
Sweet freedom's song;
The sound prolong.
Our fathers' God, to thee,
To thee we sing :
Great God, our King.
MY NATIVE LAND.
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.
WHEN Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
And set the stars of glory there.
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
Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their
I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall.
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,
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
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 BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
That brave and fallen few.
Their silent tents are spread,
The bivouac of the dead.