LOYALTY AND HEROISM.

GOING HOME.

N. P. WILLIS.

BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast,
Fling out your field of azure blue;
Let star and stripe be westward cast,
And point as Freedom's eagle flew!
Strain home! O lithe and quivering spars!
Point home, my country's flag of stars!

NATIONAL HYMN.

FRANCIS KEY SMITH.

My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim's pride,
From every mountain side
Let freedom ring.

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own my native land!"

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well! For him no minstrel's raptures swell. High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down.

To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

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 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.

THE SEMINOLE'S DEFIANCE.

G. W. PATTEN.

BLAZE, with your serried columns ! I will not bend the knee;

The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free!

I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered low;

And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its blow.

I've scared you in the city; I've scalped you on the plain; Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rain!

I scorn your proffered treaty; the pale-face I defy; Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and "blood" my battle-cry!

Some strike for hope of booty; some to defend their

I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall.
I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his

groan.

Ye've trailed me through the forest; ye've tracked me o'er the stream;

And struggling through the everglade your bristling bayonets gleam.

But I stand as should the warrior, with his rifle and his spear;

The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you,— "Come not here!"

Think ye to find my homestead?-I gave it to the fire. My tawny household do you seek?—I am a childless sire.

But, should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have and good;

I live on hate,

food.

-'tis all my bread; yet light is not my

I loathe you with my bosom! I scorn you with mine

eye!

And I'll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you till I die!

I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er will be your

slave;

But I'll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath the wave!

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

THEODORE O'HARA. EXTRACT.

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards with solemn round.
The bivouac of the dead.