the events of that day, and which we know must continue to rain influence on the destinies of mankind, to the end of time; the elevation with which it raises us high above the ordinary feelings of life; surpass all that the study of the closet, or even the inspiration of genius can produce. To-day, it speaks to us. Its future auditories will be through successive generations of men, as they rise up before it, and gather round it. Its speech will be of patriotism and courage; of civil and religious liberty; of free government; of the moral improvement and elevation of mankind; and of the immortal memory of those who, with heroic devotion, have sacrificed their lives for their country.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.-J. RODMAN DRAKE.
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!
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldrick 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 't is given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
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 sabers rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,-
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink 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?
NEVER OR NOW.-OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
LISTEN, young heroes! your country is calling!
Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true! Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!
You whom the fathers made free and defended,
Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame!
You whose fair heritage spotless descended,
Leave not your children a birthright of shame!
Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping
Wait not till Honor lies wrapt in his pall!
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping-
"Off for the wars!" 'tis enough for them all.
Break from the arms that would fondly caress you!
Hark! 'tis the bugle-blast! sabers are drawn!
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you,
Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!
Never or now! cries the blood of a nation.
Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom
Now is the day and the hour of salvation--
Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!
Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon!
Through the black canopy blotting the skies;
Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies!
From the foul dens where our brothers are dying,
Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,
From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying,
Pleading in vain for a handful of earth;
From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered,
Furrowed and ridged by the battle-fields' plow,
Comes the loud summons- too long have you slumbered i
Hear the last Angel-trump--Never or now!
THE LITTLE DRUMMER.-R. HI. STODDARD,
"TIS of a little drummer,
The story I shall tell,
Of how he marched to battle,
And all that there befell.
Out in the west with Lyon
(For once the name was true),
For whom the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too!
Our army rose at midnight,
Ten thousand men as orie,
Each slinging on his knapsack,
And snatching up his gun;
"Forward!" and off they started,
As all good soldiers do,
When the little drummer beats for them
It was a sight to see them,
That early autumn day,
Our soldiers in their blue coats,
And the rebel ranks in gray,
The smoke that rolled between them,
The balls that whistled through,
And the little drummer as he beat
His comrades dropped around him—
By fives and tens they fell;
Some pierced by Minié bullets,
Some torn by shot and shell;
They played against our cannon,
And a caisson's splinters flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too!
"Where is our little drummer?"
His nearest comrades say,
When the dreadful fight is over,
And the smoke has cleared away,
As the rebel corps was scattering
He urged them to pursue,
For furiously he beat, and beat,
He stood no more among them,
For a bullet as it sped,
Had glanced and struck his ankle,
And stretched him with the dead! He crawled behind a cannon,
And pale, and paler grew;
But still the little drummer beat
They bore him to the surgeon,
A busy man was he;
"A drummer-boy-what ails him?"
His comrades answered, "See!"
As they took him from the stretcher
A heavy breath he drew,
And his little fingers strove to beat
The rat-tat-too!
The ball had spent its fury;
"A scratch," the surgeon said,
As he wound the snowy bandage
Which the lint was staining red.
"I must leave you now, old fellow,"
"O take me back with you,
For I know the men are missing me,
And the rat-tat-too!"
Upon his comrade's shoulder
They lifted him so grand,
With his dusty drum before him,
And his drumsticks in his hand!
To the fiery front of battle,
That nearer, nearer drew,
And evermore he beat, and beat,
The wounded as he passed them
Looked up and gave a cheer;
And one in dying blessed him,
Between a smile and tear!
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