Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave: Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the G.o.d of storms, The lightning and the gale!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

_Indians_

Alas! for them, their day is o'er, Their fires are out on hill and sh.o.r.e; No more for them the wild deer bounds, The plough is on their hunting grounds; The pale man's axe rings through their woods, The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods; Their pleasant springs are dry; Their children,--look, by power opprest, Beyond the mountains of the west, Their children go to die.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

_Crossing the Plains_[21]

What great yoked brutes with briskets low; With wrinkled necks like buffalo, With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, That turned so slow and sad to you, That shone like love's eyes soft with tears, That seemed to plead, and make replies, The while they bowed their necks and drew The creaking load; and looked at you.

Their sable briskets swept the ground, Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.

Two sullen bullocks led the line, Their great eyes shining bright like wine; Two sullen captive kings were they, That had in time held herds at bay, And even now they crushed the sod With stolid sense of majesty, And stately stepped and stately trod, As if 't were something still to be Kings even in captivity.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

[Footnote 21: _From "The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller"

(copyrighted). By permission of the publishers. The Whitaker-Ray Company, San Francisco._]

_Concord Hymn_

Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On the green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may her dead redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_Ode_

Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857.

O tenderly the haughty day Fills his blue urn with fire; One morn is in the mighty heaven, And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses beat not less, The joy-bells chime their tidings down, Which children's voices bless.

For He that flung the broad blue fold O'er-mantling land and sea, One third part of the sky unrolled For the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kind To build an equal state,-- To take the statute from the mind And make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,-- Present and Past in under-song,-- Go put your creed into your deed, Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don't understand, Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll Of honor o'er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll, A ferry of the free.

And henceforth there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea The wires shall murmur through the main Sweet songs of liberty.

The conscious stars accord above, The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove, Her fiery errands go.

For He that worketh high and wise, Nor pauses in His plan, Will take the sun out of the skies, Ere freedom out of man.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_Stanzas on Freedom_

Is true Freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts, forget That we owe mankind a debt?

No! true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free!

They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_Abraham Lincoln_

This man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of nature's masterful, great men; Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won; Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.

Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.

Upon his back a more than Atlas-load, The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid; He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.

Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place To this dear benefactor of the race.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

_Lincoln the Great Commoner_

When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down, To make a man to meet the mortal need.

She took the tried clay of the common road-- Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth, Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.

It was a stuff to wear for centuries, A man that matched the mountains and compelled The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth, The tang and odor of the primal things, The rect.i.tude and patience of the rocks; The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; The courage of the bird that dares the sea; The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; The pity of the snow that hides all scars; The loving kindness of the wayside well; The tolerance and equity of light That gives as freely to the shrinking weed As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn That shoulders out the sky.