Poems of American Patriotism Part 7

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-tramping loud, And see the lightning-lances driven, When stride 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 glist'ning bayonet), Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy meteor-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!

There shall thy victor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath, Each gallant arm that strikes below, The lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave Thy star 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, The 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!

[And fixed as yonder orb divine, That saw thy bannered blaze unfurled, Shall thy proud stars resplendent s.h.i.+ne, The guard and glory of the world.]

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!

OLD IRONSIDES

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Sept. 16, 1830 _The frigate Const.i.tution was launched in 1797, and took part in the war with Tripoli in 1804. In 1812 she captured the British Guerriere on August 19th, and the British Java on December 29th.

After the war she served as a training s.h.i.+p. In 1830 it was proposed to break her up, which called forth this indignant poem.

In 1876 she was refitted, and in 1878 she took over the American exhibits to the Paris Exhibition. She now lies out of commission in Rotten Row, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard._

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar;-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;-- The harpies of the sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the G.o.d of storms,-- The lightning and the gale!

MONTEREY

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN

[Sidenote: Sept. 19-24, 1846]

_The a.s.saulting American army at the attack on Monterey numbered six thousand six hundred and twenty-five; the defeated Mexicans were about ten thousand._

We were not many--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have with us been at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on--still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many--we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey?

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

THEODORE O'HARA

[Sidenote: Feb. 22, 23, 1847]

_This poem was written to commemorate the bringing home of the bodies of the Kentucky soldiers who fell at Buena Vista, and their burial at Frankfort at the cost of the State._

The m.u.f.fled 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.

No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn, nor screaming fife, At dawn shall call to arms.

Their s.h.i.+vered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flas.h.i.+ng blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those b.r.e.a.s.t.s that never more may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

'T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save.

By rivers of their father's gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain-- And long the pitying sky has wept Above the mouldering slain.

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and b.l.o.o.d.y Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave.

So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, On many a b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+eld; The suns.h.i.+ne of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre.