The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not, For they have passed away.

EXERCISE XXXVII.

THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.

I SAW him on the battle eve,

When like a king he bore him ;
Proud hosts, in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs, before him;

The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, -
The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, -

No daunting thoughts came o'er him;
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky.

He looked on ocean; its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet;

On earth; and saw, from east to west,
His bannered millions meet;

While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!

He heard the imperial echoes ring,-
He heard, and felt himself a king.

I saw him next, alone:— - nor camp,
Nor chief, his steps attended;
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom Fortune high
So lately seemed to deify;

He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled like a fugitive and slave!

Behind, the foe;-before, the wave.

He stood,fleet, army, treasure,
Alone and in despair!

gone,

-

But wave and wind swept ruthless on,
For they were monarchs there;

And Xerxes, in a single bark,

Where late his thousand ships were dark,
Must all their fury dare;
What a revenge -a trophy, this-
For thee, immortal Salamis !

EXERCISE XXXVIII.

A CENTENNIAL HYMN.

Two hundred years!-two hundred years! How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide!

The red man, at his horrid rite,

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,
His bark canoe its track of light
Left on the wave beneath the moon,-

His dance, his yell, his council-fire,
The altar where his victim lay,
His death-song, and his funeral pyre,-
That still, strong tide hath borne away.

And that pale pilgrim band is gone,
That on this shore, with trembling, trod,
Ready to faint, yet bearing on

The ark of freedom and of God.

And war-that, since, o'er ocean came,
And thundered loud from yonder hill,
And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame,
To blast that ark-its storm is still.

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers,
That live in story and in song,

Time, for the last two hundred years,

Has raised, and shown, and swept along.

'Tis like a dream when one awakesThis vision of the scenes of old:

T is like the moon when morning breaks, 'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told.

Then what are we ?-then what are we ?
Yes, when two hundred years have rolled
O'er our green graves, our names shall be
A morning dream, a tale that 's told.
God of our fathers, in whose sight
The thousand years that sweep away
Man, and the traces of his might,

Are but the break and close of day,

Grant us that love of truth sublime,
That love of goodness and of thee,
Which makes thy children, in all time,
To share thine own eternity!

EXERCISE XXXIX.

YANKEE SHIPS.

OUR Yankee ships! in fleet career,
They linger not behind,

Where gallant sails from other lands
Court favoring tide and wind.
With banners on the breeze, they leap
As gayly o'er the foam

As stately barks from prouder seas,
That long have learned to roam.

The Indian wave, with luring smiles,
Swept round them bright to-day;
And havens of Atlantic isles

Are opening on their way;
Ere yet these evening shadows close,
Or this frail song is o'er,

Full many a straining mast will rise
To greet a foreign shore.

High up the lashing northern deep,

Where glimmering watch-lights beain,

Away in beauty where the stars

In tropic brightness gleam,

Where'er the sea-bird wets her beak

Or blows the stormy gale;

On to the water's furthest verge
Our ships majestic sail.

They dip their keels in every stream
That swells beneath the sky;
And where old ocean's billows roll
Their lofty pennants fly:

They furl their sheets in threatening clouds
That float across the main,

To link with love earth's distant bays,
In many a golden chain.

EXERCISE XL.

PLEA FOR THE RED MAN.

I VENERATE the Pilgrim's cause,
Yet for the Red Man dare to plead :
We bow to Heaven's written laws,
He turned to Nature for a creed;
Beneath the pillared dome

We seek our God in prayer;

Through boundless woods he loved to roam, And the Great Spirit worshipped there. But one, one fellow-throb with us he felt; To one divinity with us he knelt; Freedom, the self-same freedom we adore, Bade him defend his violated shore. He saw the cloud ordained to grow, And burst upon his hills in woe; He saw his people withering by, Beneath the invader's evil eye;

Strange feet were trampling on his father's bees At midnight hour he woke to gaze

Upon his happy cabin's blaze,

And listen to his children's dying groans.
He saw, and, maddening at the sight,
Gave his bold bosom to the fight;
To tiger rage his soul was driven;
Mercy was not, -nor sought nor given;
The pale man from his lands must fly;
He would be free, or he would die.

And was this savage? Say,
Ye ancient few,

Who struggled through
Young Freedom's trial day, --

What first your sleeping wrath awoke ?
On your own shores war's 'larum broke;
What turned to gall e'en kindred blood?
Round your own homes the oppressor stood:
This every warm affection chilled;

This every heart with vengeance thrilled,
And strengthened every hand;
From mound to mound

The word went round
"Death for our native land!"

Alas for them! their day is o'er ;

*

Their fires are out from hill and shore;
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 oppressed,
Beyond the mountains of the west.
Their children go-to die!

But the doomed Indian leaves behind no trace,

To save his own, or serve another race;

With his frail breath his power has passed away;

His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay;
Nor lofty pile, nor glowing page,
Shall link him to a future age,

Or give him with the past a rank ;
His heraldry is but a broken bow,
His history but a tale of wrong and woe;
His very name must be a blank.

Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps;
O'er him no filial spirit weeps;

No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend,
To bless his coming, and embalm his end;
E'en that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue;
By foes alone his death-song must be sung;
No chronicles but theirs shall tell
His mournful doom to future times:

May these upon his virtues dwell,
And in his fate forget his crimes!