Selections from American poetry Part 8

Pure was thy life; its b.l.o.o.d.y close Hath placed thee with the sons of light, Among the n.o.ble host of those Who perished in the cause of Right.

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming; 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 the sh.o.r.e dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foes 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?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now s.h.i.+nes 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 washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight and 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 G.o.d 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.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

THE AMERICAN FLAG

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.

And 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.

Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings s.h.i.+ne afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on.

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance.

And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!

By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven.

Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

THE CULPRIT FAY (Selection)

'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; He has counted them all with click and stroke, Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, And he has awakened the sentry elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly sh.e.l.l) "Midnight comes, and all is well!

Hither, hither, wing your way!

'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day."

They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullen's velvet screen; Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-- They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars' inlaid; And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade.

And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above, below, on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride.

They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup And drink the dew from the b.u.t.tercup.

A scene of sorrow waits them now, For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eye of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king's behest.

For this the shadowy tribes of air To the elfin court must haste away; And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay.

The throne was reared upon the gra.s.s, Of spice-wood and of sa.s.safras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-sh.e.l.l Hung the burnished canopy,-- And over it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip's crimson drapery.

The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, On his brow the crown imperial shone, The prisoner Fay was at his feet, And his peers were ranged around the throne.

He waved his sceptre in the air, He looked around and calmly spoke; His brow was grave and his eye severe, But his voice in a softened accent broke:

"Fairy! Fairy! list and mark!

Thou halt broke thine elfin chain; Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain; Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye: Thou bast scorned our dread decree, And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, But well I know her sinless mind Is pure as the angel forms above, Gentle and meek and chaste and kind, Such as a spirit well might love.

Fairy! had she spot or taint, Bitter had been thy punishment Tied to the hornet's shardy wings, Tossed on the p.r.i.c.ks of nettles' stings, Or seven long ages doomed to dwell With the lazy worm in the walnut-sh.e.l.l; Or every night to writhe and bleed Beneath the tread of the centipede; Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, Your jailer a spider huge and grim, Amid the carrion bodies to lie Of the worm, and the bug and the murdered fly: These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.

Now list and mark our mild decree Fairy, this your doom must be:

"Thou shaft seek the beach of sand Where the water bounds the elfin land; Thou shaft watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moons.h.i.+ne; Then dart the glistening arch below, And catch a drop from his silver bow.

The water-sprites will wield their arms, And dash around with roar and rave; And vain are the woodland spirits' charms-- They are the imps that rule the wave.

Yet trust thee in thy single might: If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, Thou shalt win the warlock fight." . . .

The goblin marked his monarch well; He spake not, but he bowed him low; Then plucked a crimson colen-bell, And turned him round in act to go.

The way is long, he cannot fly, His soiled wing has lost its power; And he winds adown the mountain high For many a sore and weary hour Through dreary beds of tangled fern, Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, Over the gra.s.s and through the brake, Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake; Now over the violet's azure flush He skips along in lightsome mood; And now he thrids the bramble-bush, Till its points are dyed in fairy blood; He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier, He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, Till his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak, And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.

He had fallen to the ground outright, For rugged and dim was his onward track, But there came a spotted toad in sight, And he laughed as he jumped upon her back; He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, He lashed her sides with an osier thong; And now through evening's dewy mist With leap and spring they bound along, Till the mountain's magic verge is past, And the beach of sand is reached at last.

Soft and pale is the moony beam, Moveless still the gla.s.sy stream; The wave is clear, the beach is bright With snowy sh.e.l.ls and sparkling stones; The sh.o.r.e-surge comes in ripples light, In murmurings faint and distant moans; And ever afar in the silence deep Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap, And the bend of his graceful bow is seen-- A glittering arch of silver sheen, Spanning the wave of burnished blue, And dripping with gems of the river-dew.

The elfin cast a glance around, As he lighted down from his courser toad, Then round his breast his wings he wound, And close to the river's brink he strode; He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, Above his head his arms he threw, Then tossed a tiny curve in air, And headlong plunged in the waters blue.

Up sprung the spirits of the waves, from the sea-silk beds in their coral caves; With snail-plate armor s.n.a.t.c.hed in haste, They speed their way through the liquid waste.

Some are rapidly borne along On the mailed shrimp or the p.r.i.c.kly p.r.o.ng, Some on the blood-red leeches glide, Some on the stony star-fish ride, Some on the back of the lancing squab, Some on the sideling soldier-crab, And some on the jellied quarl that flings At once a thousand streamy stings.

They cut the wave with the living oar, And hurry on to the moonlight sh.o.r.e, To guard their realms and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay.

Fearlessly he skims along; His hope is high and his limbs are strong; He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, And throws his feet with a frog-like fling; His locks of gold on the waters s.h.i.+ne, At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise, His back gleams bright above the brine, And the wake-line foam behind him lies.

But the water-sprites are gathering near To check his course along the tide; Their warriors come in swift career And hem him round on every side: On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold, The quad's long arms are round him rolled, The p.r.i.c.kly p.r.o.ng has pierced his skin, And the squab has thrown his javelin, The gritty star has rubbed him raw, And the crab has struck with his giant claw.

He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain; He strikes around, but his blows are vain; Hopeless is the unequal fight Fairy, naught is left but flight.

He turned him round and fled amain, With hurry and dash, to the beach again; He twisted over from side to side, And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide; The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, And with all his might he flings his feet.

But the water-sprites are round him still, To cross his path and work him ill: They bade the wave before him rise; They flung the sea-fire in his eyes; And they stunned his ears with the scallop-stroke, With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak.