In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. Second only to the "Star-Spangled Banner" in the estimation of the patriotic American is the "America" of Samuel F. Smith. It may claim the merit that its patriotism is devoid of warlike appeals or the boastfulness of national pride, and is simply that pure love of country which seems instinctive to every true soul. Our fathers' God, to Thee, To Thee we sing : Long may our land be bright Joseph Rodman Drake's "Ode to the American Flag" comes properly in place here. As a poem it is of the highest merit, and is the one effort of its author to which he will owe any permanence of fame. THE AMERICAN FLAG. When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, When strive the warriors of the storm, To guard the banner of the free, Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly Flag of the free heart's hope and home! And all thy hues were born in heaven. Where breathes the foe but falls before us, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! The civil war of America has given rise to several fine poems. To that of Julia Ward Howe, already quoted, may be added Thomas Buchanan Read's stirring lyric of battle, which is as headlong in its movement as the event that it commemorates. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. Up from the South at break of day, And wider still those billows of war But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, Under his spurning feet the road And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. What was done? what to do? a glance told him both; Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, IV.—i |