For, unmoved, at its portal would WASHINGTON stand,
And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder!
His sword, from the sleep

Of its scabbard would leap,

And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep!
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,

While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.

Let Fame to the world sound America's voice;

No intrigues can her sons from their government sever; Her pride is her ADAMS; her laws are his choice, And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers forever. Then unite heart and hand,

Like Leonidas' band,

And swear to the God of the ocean and land,
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant or the sea rolls its waves.

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.

Born in Maryland 1779-died 1843.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.*

O! SAY, can you see by the dawn's early light

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous

fight,

O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly stream

ing!

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;

O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?

*See Note 3.

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
Its 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

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollu-
tion.

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, for 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.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

Born in South Carolina 1799-died 1843.

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.*

ALL hail thou noble land,

Our fathers' native soil!
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore:
For thou, with magic might,

Canst reach to where the light

Of Phoebus travels bright

The world o'er!

*See Note 4.

The Genius of our clime,
From pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;

While the Tritons of the deep

With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim: Then let the world combine!

O'er the main our naval line,

Like the Milky Way, shall shine
Bright in fame.

Though ages long have pass'd

Since our fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravel'd seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins !
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame,
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language, free and bold,
Which the Bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of heaven rung,

When Satan, blasted, fell with all his host,—
While this, with reverence meet,

Ten thousand echoes greet,

From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast,—

While the manners, while the arts

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts,
Between let Ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the sun :
Yet, still, from either beach,

The voice of blood shall reach,

More audible than speech,

"We are One!

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.*

Born in Duchess County, New York, 1779-died 1860.

THE OLD MAN'S CAROUSAL.

DRINK! drink! to whom shall we drink?
To a friend or a mistress? Come, let me think!
To those who are absent, or those who are here?
To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear?
Alas! when I look, I find none of the last!
The present is barren,-let's drink to the past!

Come! here's to the girl with a voice sweet and low,
The eye all of fire and the bosom of snow,
Who erewhile in the days of my youth that are fled,
Once slept on my bosom, and pillow'd my head!
Would you know where to find such a delicate prize?
Go seek in yon churchyard, for therein she lies.

And here's to the friend, the one friend of my youth,
With a head full of genius, a heart full of truth,
Who travel'd with me in the sunshine of life,
And stood by my side in its peace and its strife!
Would you know where to seek for a blessing so rare?
Go drag the lone sea, you may find him there.

And here's to a brace of twin cherubs of mine,
With hearts like their mother's, as pure as this wine,
Who came but to see the first act of the play,
Grew tired of the scene, and then both went away.
Would you know where this brace of bright cherubs have
hied?

Go seek them in heaven, for there they abide.

A bumper, my boys! to a gray-headed pair,

Who watched o'er my childhood with tenderest care,
God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down,
On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown!
Would you know whom I drink to? go seek 'mid the dead,
You will find both their names on the stone at their head.

*See Note 5.

WILLIAM MAXWELL-JOHN PIERPONT.

And here's—but, alas! the good wine is no more,
The bottle is emptied of all its bright store;
Like those we have toasted, its spirit is fled,
And nothing is left of the light that it shed.

Then, a bumper of tears, boys! the banquet here ends,
With a health to our dead, since we've no living friends.

WILLIAM MAXWELL.

Born at Norfolk, Virginia, 1784-died 1857.

TO A FAIR LADY.

FAIREST! mourn not for thy charms
Circled by no lover's arms,
While inferior belles you see
Pick up husbands merrily.

Sparrows, when they choose to pair,
Meet their matches anywhere;
But the Phoenix, sadly great,
Can not find an equal mate.

Earth, though dark, enjoys the honour
Of a moon to wait upon her;
Venus, though divinely bright,
Can not boast a satellite.

JOHN PIERPONT.

Born at Litchfield, Connecticut, 1785-died 1866.

PLYMOUTH DEDICATION HYMN.
THE winds and waves were roaring;
The Pilgrims met for prayer;
And here, their God adoring,

They stood, in open air.

When breaking day they greeted,

And when its close was calm,

The leafless woods repeated

The music of their psalm.

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