Manual of Patriotism

GROUP IV.

THE FLAG IS SYMBOLIZED

I. THE LIBERTY CAP Song, The Liberty Cap.

2. THELIBERTY BELL .Song, The Liberty Bell.

_I THE SwoRD (War) ...Song, The Sword of Bunker Hill.

3 ( THE DovE (Peace) ...Song, Angel of Peace.

4. THE EAGLE .Song, Where the Eagle is King.

5. THE SHIELD ...Song, Battle Hymn of the Republic.

THE LIBERTY CAP.

Words by GERTRUDE SNELLER. E. DORA COGSWELL.

THELIBERTY CAP.

poor for a

stripes of the

a tempo.

sty —Jish wrap!

red, white,and blue I

THE LIBERTY CAP.

If you come,

And be true,

come, true,

THE LIBERTY CAP.

WE in America do not often see a liberty cap. That is indeed too bad. For there could not be a prettier emblem to grace the heads of America's boys and girls, whenever they wish to celebrate that Freedom which is the birthright of every American. How straight the cap stands! With what a free and jaunty grace it carries itself! How the ever-beautiful red, white and blue blend in that bewitching headgear! So, may children often

Don them to wear,

Doff them to cheer,—for the Flag.

SELECTIONS.

FREEDOM.

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,

The thunders breaking at her feet;

Above her shook the starry lights,

She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,

Self-gathered in her prophet mind,

But fragments of her mighty voice,

Came rolling on the wind.

Then stepped she down thro' town and field

To mingle with the human race,

And part by part to men r vealed

The fullness of her face.

Grave mother of majestic works,

From her isle altar gazing down,

Who, godlike, grasps the triple forks,

And kinglike, wears the crown.

Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years

Is in them. May perpetual youth

Keep dry their light from tears.

That her fair form may stand and shine,

Make bright our days and light our dreams,

Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes.

— Alfred Tennyson.

All who stand beneath our banner are free. Ours is the only flag that has in reality written upon it Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, the three grandest words in all the languages of men. Liberty: give to every man the fruit of his own labor, the labor of his hand and of his brain. Fraternity: every man in the right is my brother. Equality: the rights of all are equal. No race, no color, no previous condition, can change the rights of men. The Declaration of Independence has at last been carried out in letter and in spirit. To-day, the black man looks upon his child, and says: The avenues of distinction are open to you; upon your brow may fall the civic wreath. We are celebrating the courage and wisdom of our fathers, and the glad shout of a free people, the anthem of a grand nation, commencing at the Atlantic, is following the sun to the Pacific, across a continent of happy homes.—Robert G. Ingersoll.

WILLIAM TELL's ADDRESS TO HIS NATIVE HILLS.

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!

I hold to you the hands you first beheld,

To show they still are free! Methinks I hear

A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome home again.

O sacred forms, how fair, how proud you look!

How high you lift your heads into the sky!

How huge you are! how mighty, and how free!

Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile

Makes glad, whose frown is terrible; whose forms,

Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear

Of awe divine! Ye guards of liberty,

I'm with you once again! I call to you

With all my voice! I hold my hands to you,

To show they still are free! I rush to you

As though I could embrace you!

Scaling yonder peak,

I saw an eagle wheeling, near its brow,

O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings

Lay calm and motionless upon the air,

As if he floated there, without their aid,

By the sole act of his unlorded will

That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively

I bent my bow; yet wheeled he, heeding not

The death that threatened him. I could not shoot.

'Twas liberty! I turned my bow aside,

And let him soar away.

Oh! with what pride I used

To walk these hills, look up to God,

And bless Him that 'twas free. 'Twas free!

From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free!

Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,

And plough our valleys, without asking leave;

Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,

In very presence of the regal sun.

How happy was I then! I loved

Its very storms. Yes, I have Jat and eyed

The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled

To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head;

To think I had no master save his own.

Ye know the jutting cliff, round which a track

Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow

To such another one, with scanty room

For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken there

By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along;

The while, gust followed gust more furiously,

As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms

Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wished me there. The thought that mine was free

Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head,

And cried in thraldom t'o that furious wind,

Blow on! This is a land of liberty!

— Sheridan Knowles.

THE VISION OF LIBERTY.

A massive castle, far and high,

In towering grandeur broke upon my eye.

Proud in its strength and years, the ponderous pile

Flung up its time-defying towers;

Its lofty gates seemed scornfully to smile

At vain assaults of human powers,

And threats and arms deride.

Its gorgeous carvings of heraldic pride

In giant masses graced the walls above;

And dungeons yawned below.

Bursting on my steadfast gaze,

See, within, a sudden blaze!

So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,

That scarcely stirs the pine-tree top,

Nor makes the withered leaf to drop,

The feeble fluttering of that fiame would quell.

But soon it spread,

Waving, rushing, fierce and red,

From wall to wall, from town to town,

Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glowed,

And every stone seemed burning coal.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabric stand.

At length a crackling sound began;

From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;

And louder yet and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder peals it grew;

Huge, shivered fragments from the pillars broke,

Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.

The shattered walls were rent and riven,

And piecemeal driven,

Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.

'Tis done; what centuries have reared

In quick explosion disappeared,

Nor e'en its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place,

Bright with more than human grace,

Robed in more than mortal seeming,

Radiant glory in her face,

And eyes with heaven's own brightness gleaming,

Rose a fair, majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.

I marked her smile, I knew her eye;

And when with gesture of command,

She waved aloft a cap-crowned wand,

My slumber fled 'mid shouts of “Liberty.”

Read ye the dream? and know ye not

How truly it unlocked the world of fate?

Went not the flame from this illustrious spot,

And spread it not, and burns in every state?

And when their old and cumbrous walls,

Filled with this spirit, glow intense,

Vainly they rear their impotent defence:

The fabric falls!

That fervent energy must spread,

Till despotism's towers be overthrown,

And in their stead

Liberty stands alone.

Hasten the day, just Heaven!

Accomplish thy design,

And let the blessings thou hast freely given

Freely on all men shine,

Till equal rights be equally enjoyed,

And human power for human good employed;

Till law, not man, the sovereign rule sustain,

And peace and virtue undisputed reign.

— Henry Ware, Jr.

THE BLACK REGIMENT.

Dark as the clouds of even,

Ranked in the western heaven,

Waiting the breath that lifts

All the dead mass, and drifts

Tempest and falling brand

Over a ruined land;—

So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to knee,

Waiting the great event,

Stands the black regiment.

Down the long, dusky line

Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;

And the bright bayonet,

Bristling and firmly set,

Flashed with a purpose grand,

Long ere the sharp command

Of the fierce rolling drum

Told them their time had come,

Told them what work was sent

For the black regiment.

“Now,” the flag-sergeant cried,

“Though death and hell betide,

Let the whole nation see

If we are fit to be

Free in this land; or bound

Down, like the whining hound—

Bound with red stripes of pain

In our cold chains again! “

Oh t what a shout there went

From the black regiment!

“Charge!” Trump and drum awoke;

Onward the bondmen broke;

Bayonet and sabre-stroke

Vainly opposed their rush.

Through the wild battle's crush,

With but one thought aflush,

D-riving their lords like chaff,

In the guns' mouths they laugh;

Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands,

Down they tear man and horse,

Down in their awful course;

Trampling with bloody heel

Over the crashing steel;—

All their eyes forward bent,

Rushed the black regiment.

“Freedom!” their battle-cry

“Freedom! or leave to die!”

Ah! and they meant the word,

Not as with us 'tis heard,

Not a mere party shout;

They gave their spmts out,

Trusted the end to God,

And on the gory sod

Rolled in triumphant blood;

Glad to strike one free blow,

Whether for weal or woe;

Glad to breathe one free breath,

Though on the lips of death;

Praying—alas! in vain!—

That they might fall again,

So they could once more see

That burst to liberty!

This was what “freedom” lent

To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;

But they are resting well;

Scourges and shackles strong

Never shall do them wrong.

Oh, to the living few,

Soldiers, be just and true!

Hail them as comrades tried;

Fight with them side by side;

Never, in field or tent,

Scorn the black regiment.

— George Henry Boker.

OUR STATE.

The south-land boasts its teeming cane,

The prairied west its heavy grain,

And sunset's radiant gates unfold

On rising marts and sands of gold!

Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State

Is scant of soil, of limits strait;

Her yellow sands are sands alone,

Her only mines are ice and stone!

From autumn frost to April rain,

Too long her winter woods complain;

From budding flower to falling leaf,

Her summer time is all too brief.

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands,

And wintry hills, the school-house stands;

And what her rugged soil denies

The harvest of the mind supplies.

The riches of the commonwealth

And free, strong minds, and hearts of health;

And, more to her than gold or grain,

The cunning hand and cultured brain.

For well she keeps her ancient stock,

The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock;

And still maintains, with milder laws

And clearer light, the good old cause!

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands,

While near her school the church-spire stands;

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule,

While near her church-spire stands th school.

— John Greenleaf Whittier.

W.K.W.

Allegretto.

THE LIBERTY BELL.

Music by HAMLIN E. COGSWELL.

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THE LIBERTY BELL.

THAT boy or girl is there in all this broad land who does not know the story of the wonderful old Liberty Bell; how it rang out the glorious tidings of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence? How this message came down from the steeple as though sent from the skies to the eager and cheering crowds in the streets of Philadelphia? How the bell, now old and cracked, bears upon its surface those words which can never be uttered without stirring the pulse of every patriot, “Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land to all the inhabitants thereof.”

SELECTIONS.

INDEPENDENCE BELL, JULY 4, 1776.

There was tumult in the city,

In the quaint old Quaker's town,

And the streets were rife with people,

Pacing, restless, up and down;—

People, gathering at corners,

Where they whispered, each to each,

And the sweat stood on their temples,

With the earnestness of speech.

As the bleak Atlantic currents

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore,

So they beat against the State House,

So they surged against the door;

And the mingling of their voices

Made a harmony profound,

Till the quiet street of Chestnut

Was all turbulent with sound.

“Will they do it?"—"Dare they do it?”—

“Who is speaking?"— “What's the news?"—

“What of Adams?"—“What of Sherman?”—

“Oh, God grant they won't refuse!”—

“Make some way there!”—“Let me nearer!“—

“I am stifling! “—“Stifle, then!

When a nation's life's at hazard,

We've no time to think of men!“

So they beat against the portal,

Man and woman, maid and child;

And the July sun in heaven

On the scene looked down and smiled;

The same sun that saw the Spartan

Shed his patriot blood in vain,

Now beheld the soul of Freedom,

All unconquered, rise again.

See! See! The dense crowd quivers

Through an its lengthy line,

As the boy beside the portal

Looks forth to give the sign!

With his small hands upward lifted,

Breezes dallying with his hair,

Hark! with deep, clear intonation,

Breaks his young voice on the air.

Hushed the people's swelling murmur,

List the boy's strong, joyous cry!

“Ring!” he shouts, “RING! Grandpa,

Ring! Oh, Ring for Liberty!”

And, straightway, at the signal,

The old bellman lifts his hand,

And sends the good news, making

Iron music through the land.

How they shouted! What rejoicing!

How the old bell shook the air,

Till the clang of Freedom ruffled

The calm, gliding Delaware!

How the bonfires and the torches

Illumed the night's repose,

And from the flames, like Phoenix,

Fair Liberty arose!

That old bell now is silent,

And hushed its iron tongue,

But the spirit it awakened

Still lives,—forever young.

And, while we greet the sunlight,

On the fourth of each July,

We'll ne'er forget the bellman,

Who, 'twixt the earth and sky,

Rung out Our Independence;

Which, please God, shall never die!

THE BELL.

In some strange land and time,—for so the story runs,—they were about to found a bell for a mighty tower,—a hollow, starless heaven of iron.

It should toll for dead monarchs, “The king is dead;” and it should make glad clamor for the new prince, “Long live the king!” It should proclaim so great a passion, or so grand a pride, that either would be worshipped; or, wanting these, forever hold its peace. Now, this bell was not to be dug out of the cold mountain; it was to be made of something that had been warmed with a human touch, or loved with a human love.

And so the people came like pilgrims to a shrine, and cast their offerings into the furnace.

By and by, the bell was alone in its chamber; and its four windows looked out to the four quarters of heaven. For many a day it hung dumb.

The winds came and went, but they only set it sighing; birds came and sang under its eaves, but it was an iron ho:-izon of dead melody still. All the meaner strifes and passions of men rippled on below it; they out-grouped the ants; they out-wrought. the bees; they outwatched the shepherds of Chaldea; but the chamber_of the bell was as dumb as the cave of Machpelah.

At last there came a time when men grew grand for Right and Truth, and stood shoulder to shoulder over all the land, and went down like reapers to the harvest of death; looked_into the graves of them that slept, and believed there was something grander than living; glanced on into the far future, and discerned there was something better than dying; and so, standing between the quick and the dead, they quitted themselves like men.

Then the bell awoke in its chamber; and the great wave of its music rolled gloriously out, and broke along the blue walls of the world like an anthem. Poured into that fiery heat together, the humblest gifts were blent in one great wealth, and accents feeble as a sparrow's song grew eloquent and strong; and lo! a people's stately soul heaved on the waves of a mighty voice.

We thank God, in this our day, for the furnace and the fire; for the good sword and the true vrnrd; for the great triumph and the little song.

By the memory of the Ramah into which war has turned the land, for the love of the Rachels now lamenting within it, for the honor of Heaven and the hope of mankind, let us who stand here, past and present clasping hands over our heads, the broad age d,vindled to a line under our feet, and ridged with the graves of dead martyrs; let us declare before God and these witnesses,—“We will finish the Work that the Fathers began.”—B. F. Taylor.

THE SWORD.

IT may seem strange to call upon the boys and girls of the Empire State to celebrate the sword—the instrument by which, in days gone by, in our own land, thousands have been slain. For the Sword here stands for muskets, bayonets, guns—small and great—and every sort of weapon by which brave men have lost their lives in battle. In other words, it stands for War, with all its cruelties and horrors.

And yet, there come times in the history of every people when they must draw the sword, or perish. Bad as war always is, slavery is worse, the loss of freedom is worse. That is why the American colonists, armed With old-fashioned flint-lock muskets, stood so bravely against the attacks of the British redcoats; that is why

“The farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and barnyard wall.”

Yes, and more than that: At first the colonists were anxious merely to secure such rights as they thought ,vere fairly theirs under the British government; but soon and fast grew the wish for Independence—the gift of God to all men. Now, was it not worth while to fight in such a cause and to gain such a priceless thing? Let other examples be recalled, and let us not be afraid to rejoice over all true victories won by The Sword.

SELECTIONS.

Americans need to keep in mind the fact that as a nation they have erred far more often in not being willing to fight than in being too willing. Once roused, our countrymen have always been dangerous and hard-fighting foes, but they have been over-difficult to rouse. The educated classes in particular need to be perpetually reminded that, though it is an evil thing to brave a conflict needlessly, or to bully and bluster, it is an even worse thing to flinch from a fight for which there is legitimate provocation.

America is bound scrupulously to respect the rights of the weak, but she is no less bound to make stalwart insistence on her own rights as against the strong.—Gov. Theodore Roosevelt.

THE RISING IN 1776.

Out of the North the wild news came,

Far flashing on its wings of flame,

Swift as the boreal light which flies

At midnight through the startled skies.

And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,

And through the wide land everywhere

The answering tread of hurrying feet;

While the first oath of Freedom's gun

Came on the blast from Lexington;

And Concord roused, no longer tame,

Forgot her old baptismal name,

Made bare her patriot arm of power,

And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkeley Manor stood;

There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood.

In vain their feet with loitering tread

Passed 'mid the graves where rank is naught;

All could not read the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

The pastor came; his snowy locks

Hallowed his brow of thought and care;

And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,

He led into the house of prayer.

The pastor rose; the prayer was strong;

The psalm was warrior David's song;

The text, a few short words of might,

“The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!”

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,

Of sacred rights to. be secured;

Then from his patriot tongue of flame

The startling words for freedom came.

The stirring sentences he spake

Compelled the heart to glow or quake;

And, rising on his theme's broad wing,

And grasping in his nervous hand

The imaginary battle brand,

In face of death he dared to Hing

Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed

In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;

Then swept his kindling glance of fire

From startled pew to breathless choir;

“When suddenly his mantle wide

His hands impatient flung aside,

And lo! he met their wondering eyes,

Complete, in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause,

When Berkeley cried, “Cease, traitor! cease,

God's temple is the house of peace! “

The other shouted, “Nay, not so!

When God is with our righteous cause

His holiest places, then, are ours,

His temples are our forts and towers,

That frown upon the tyrant foe;

In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,

There is a time to fight and pray!”

And now before the open door,

The warrior priest had ordered so,

The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar

Rang through the chapel o'er and o'er,

Its long reverberating blow,

So loud and clear, it seemed the ear

Of dusty death must wake and hear.

And there the startling drum and fife

Fired the living with fiercer life;

While overhead, with wild increase,

Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before;

It seemed as it would never cease;

And every word its ardor flung

From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, “War! War! War!”

“Who dares?" this was the patriot's cry,

As striding from the desk he came,

“Come out with me, in Freedom's name.

For her to live, for her to die?

“A hundred hands flung up reply,

A hundred voices answered, “I.”

— T. Buchanan Read.

Be it in the defense or be it in the assertion of a people's rights, I hail the sword as a sacred weapon; and if it has sometimes taken too deep a dye, yet, like the anointed rod of the High Priest, it has at other times, and as often, blossomed into celestial flowers to deck the freeman's brow. Abhor the sword? Stigmatize the sword? No! for in the passes of the Tyrol it cut to pieces the banner of the Bavarian, and through those craggy defiles struck a path to fame for the peasant insurrectionist of Innspruck. Abhor the sword? Stigmatize the sword? No! for it s,vept the Dutch marauders out of the fine ol towns of Belgium, scourged them back to their own phlegmatic swamps, and knocked their flag and sceptre, their laws and bayonets into the sluggish waters of the Scheldt. Abhor the sword? Stigmatize the sword? NO! For at its blow a giant nation started from the waters of the Atlantic, and by the redeeming magic of the sword, and in the quivering of its crimson light, the crippled colonies sprang into the attitude of a proud republic,—prosperous, limitless, invincible.—Thomas Francis Meagher.

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.

WILLIAM Ross W ALLACE.

BERNARD COVERT.

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ANGEL OF PEACE.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, MATTHIAS KELLE!t.

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ANGEL OF PEACE.

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THE DOVE.

A DOVE is quite a common sight to children living in the country—and a great many boys and girls could write very interesting compositions about its beauty, its quiet ways, and its contented life. They could weave into their thoughts, also, that beautiful story of olden times about the dove that was once sent forth from an ark, at a time when the whole of the Earth's surface was covered with water, to see if she could find a resting place “for the sole of her foot;” and how at first she could find none, but going forth again, after seven days resting in the ark, she returned at evening—“and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf pluckt off;” so the people in the ark knew that the waters had abated. Well, ever since that time, almost, the olive leaf, or branch, has meant victory—just as the dry land gained a victory over the water,—and the Dove has been the symbol of Peace—just as peace and happiness came to the dwellers shut up in the storm-tossed ark on the top of the mountain. Now what more pleasant celebration can happy children have, than to read and talk and sing about the glory and prosperity which comes to a nation that is at peace with all the world? Let us talk about the sword and cruel war when we must because our country is in peril; but let the songs of Peace and its praises be ever upon our lips, until

“The war-drums beat no longer,

And the battle-flags are furled

In the Parliament of Man,

The Federation of the World.”

SELECTIONS.

There is a story told

In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold,

And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit

With grave responses listening unto it;

Once, on the errands of his mercy bent,

Buddha, the holy and benevolent,

Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,

Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook.

“0 son of Peace!” the giant cried, “thy fate

Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate.”

The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace

Of fear or anger, in the monster's face,

With pity said: “Poor fiend, even thee I love.”

Lo! as he spake, the sky-tall terror sank

To hand-breadth size; the huge abhorrence shrank

Into the form and fashion of a dove;

And where the thunder of its rage was heard,

Brooding above him sweetly sang the bird;

“Hate hath no harm for love,” so ran the song,

And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!”

— John Greenleaf Whittier.

It is a beautiful picture in Grecian story, that there was at least one spot, the small island of Delos, dedicated to the gods, and kept at all times sacred from war. No hostile foot ever sought to press this kindly soil; and the citizens of all countries here met, in common worship, beneath the aegis of inviolable peace. So let us dedicate om beloved country; and may the blessed consecration be felt in all its parts, throughout its ample domain! The TEMPLE OF HONOR shall be surrounded here at last, by the Temple of Concord, that it may never more be entered by any portal of war; the horn of abundance shall overflow at its gates; the angel of religion shall be the guide over its steps of flashing adamant; while within its enraptured courts, purged of violence and wrong, JUSTICE, returning to earth from her long exile in the skies, with mighty scales for nations as for men, shall rear her serene and majestic front; and by her side, greatest; of all, CHARITY, sublime in meekness, hoping all and enduring all, shall divinely temper every righteous decree and with words of infinite cheer shall inspire those good works that cannot vanish away. And the future chiefs of the Republic, destined to uphold the glories of a new era, unspotted by human blood, shall be “the first in Peace, and the fi st in the hearts of their countrymen.”

But while seeking these blissful glories for ourselves, let us strive to extend them to other lands. Let the bugles sound the Truce of God to the whole world forever. Let the selfish boast of the Spartan women become the grand chorus of mankind, that they have never seen the smoke of an enemy's camp. Let the iron belt of martial music, which now encompasses the earth, be exchanged for the golden cestus of Peace, clothing all with celestial beauty.—Charles Sumner, from “The True Grandeur of Nations,” an oration delivered before the authorities of the city of Boston, July 4, 1845.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing

Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,

When the Death-angel touches these swift keys!

What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,

The cries of agony, the endless groan,

Which, through the ages that have gone before us,

In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,

And loud, amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace

Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin.

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;

The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,

'With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drow nest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,

And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals or forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!

And every nation that should lift again

Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,

The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!“

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!

But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

— H. W. Longfellow.

THE EAGLE.

THIS, surely, is true: If you have ever seen an Eagle shut up in a cage, deprived of the power to fly, and no scream of triumph ever issuing from his throat, it must have given you a faint idea of the forlorn and unhappy plight of any human being when deprived of liberty, pining away in hopeless captivity.

If you have ever watched that same bird flying high and strong, or have seen him perched upon some tall cliff or crag, rejoicing in the upper air, and gazing with unblinking eyes upon the sun,—you have seen a fine illustration of the joys of Freedom.

SELECTIONS.

THE EAGLE.

Bird of the broad and sweeping wing

Thy home is high in heaven,

Where wide the storms their banners fling,

And the tempest clouds are driven.

Thy throne is on the mountain top;

Thy fields— the boundless air;

And hoary peaks that proudly prop

The skies, thy dwellings are.

* * * * * * *

And where was then thy fearless flight?

“O'er the dark, mysterious sea,

To the lands that caught the setting light,

The cradle of liberty.

There on the silent and lonely shore,

For ages I watched alone,

And the world, in its darkness, asked no more

Where the glorious bird had flown.

But then came a bold and hardy few,

And they breasted the unknown wave;

I caught afar the wandering crew,

And I knew they were high and brave.

I wheeled around the welcome bark,

As it sought the desolate shore;

And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,

My quivering pinions bore.

And now that bold and hardy few

Are a nation wide and strong;

And danger and doubt I have led them through,

And they worship me in song;

And over their bright and glancing arms

On field, and lake, and sea,

With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,

I guide them to victory.”

— James Gates Percival.

THE AMERICAN EAGLE.

Bird of Columbia! well art thou

An emblem of our native land;

With unblenched front and noble brow,

Among the nations doomed to stand;

Proud, like her mighty mountain woods;

Like her own rivers wandering free;

And sending forth from hills and floods

The joyous shout of liberty!

Like thee, majestic bird! like thee,

She stands in unbought majesty,

With spreading wing, untired and strong,

That dares a soaring far and long,

That mounts aloft, nor looks below,

And will not quail, though tempests blow

The admiration of the earth,

In grand simplicity she stands;

Like thee, the storms beheld her birth,

And she was nursed by rugged hands;

But, past the fierce and furious war,

Her rising fame new glory brings,

For kings and nobles come from far

To seek the shelter of her wings.

And like thee, rider of the cloud,

She mounts the heavens, serene and proud,

Great in a pure and noble fame,

Great in her spotless champion's name,

And destined in her day to be

Mighty as Rome, more nobly free.

— C. W. Thompson.

WHERE THE EAGLE IS KING.

THO)I,\.S BUCHANAN READ.

lldartial style.

WILLIAM F. HARTLEY.

-•-

Words by permission J. B. LIPPINCOTT Co rPA Y; !\lusic, HouGHTOY1 1'.IrFFLIN & Co.

WHERE THE EAGLE IS KING.

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THE GRAY FOREST EAGLE.

* * * * * * *

An emblem of freedom, stern, haughty, and high,

Is the Gray Forest Eagle, that king of the sky.

When his shadows sblue black o'er the empires of kings,

Deep terror,—deep, heart-shaking terror,—he brings;

Where wicked oppression is armed for the weak,

There rustles his pinion, there echoes his shriek;

His eye flames with vengeance, he sweeps on his way,

And his talons are bathed in the blood of his prey.

O, that Eagle of Freedom! when cloud upon cloud

Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud,

When lightnings gleamed fiercely, and thunderbolts rung,

How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung!

Though the wild blast of battle rushed fierce through the air

With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there;

Unquailing, still speeding his swift flight was on,

Till the rainbow of peace cro-wned the victory won.

O, that Eagle of Freedom! age dims not his eye,

He has seen earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die!

He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall,

He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all;

He has seen our own land with forests o'erspread,

He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head;

And his presence will bless this his own chosen clime,

Till the Archangel's fiat is set upon time.

— Alfred B. Street.

THE EAGLE.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls;

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

— Alfred Tennyson.

Many years ago, a white-headed eagle was taken from its nest when only four months old, and sold to a Wisconsin farmer for a bushel of corn. The bird was very intelligent, and attracted the attention of a gentleman, who purchased and presented him to the Eighth Regiment of Wisconsin, then preparing to go to the front. The eagle was gladly received, and given a place next to the regimental flag. For three years he followed the “Live Eagle Regiment,” being near its flag in thirty battles.

This majestic bird was always moved and most demonstrative at the sound of martial music. He shared all the battles of the regiment, but no drop of his blood was ever sacrificed. Vainly did rebel sharpshooters aim at his dark figure, conspicuously “painted on the crimson sky;” he seemed to bear a charmed life; and his loyal comrades almost looked up to him as their leader, and with pride believed in him as a bird of good omen. He was named “Old Abe,” sworn into the service, and proved to be every inch a soldier, listening to and obeying orders, noting time most accurately, always after the first year giving heed to “attention,” insisting upon being in the thickest of the fight, and when his comrades, exposed to great danger from the terrible fire of the enemy, were ordered to lie down, he would flatten himself upon the ground with them, rising when they did, and with outspread pinions soar aloft over the carnage and smoke of the battle. When the cannons were pouring forth destruction and death, above the roar and thunder of the artillery rose his wild, shrill, battle-cry of freedom. He was always restless before the march to the encounter, but after the smoke of the battlefield had cleared away he would doff his soldierlike bearing, and with wild screams of delight would manifest his joy at the victory; but if defeat was the result his discomfiture and deep sorrow was manifested by every movement of his stately figure, but drooping head.-Adapted from M. S. Porter.

THE SHIELD.

NOW great was the reliance of the Roman soldier upon his shield! With it, he warded off the arrows of his enemies aimed at his body; holding it over him, like a roof, he sheltered his head from storms of missiles hurled at him from higher places. But ,voe be to him, if his shield was not strong enough to withtand the weapons dashed against it!

Recall, also, the command of the Spartan mother to her soldierson: “My son, return with your shield or upon it.” That meant that the soldier was to win the victory if possible; if not, was to give up his life in defense of his country, and be borne home upon his shield as a pall of honor.

So, Our Country is a shield of Law and Justice, giving to every citizen its sure and safe protection. May that shield neyer be so weak that it cannot withstand the attacks of any and every foe!

On the other hand, every citizen should be as a shield for his country—trying to win right victories for her, or ready, if need be, to die for her, like the Spartan soldier of old.

SELECTIONS.

THE TRUE PATRIOT.

E'en when in hostile fields he bleeds to save her,

'Tis not his blood he loses, 'tis his country's;

He only pays her back a debt he o,ves.

To her he's bound for birth and education,

Her laws secure him from domestic feuds,

And from the foreign foe her arms protect him.

She lends him honors, dignity, and rank,

His wrong revenges, and his merit pays;

And like a tender and indulgent mother,

Loads him with comforts, and would make his state

As blessed as nature and the gods designed it.

— William Cowper.

I do not know how far the United States of America can interfere in Turkey, but American citizens are suffering in Armenia, and so far as American citizens are concerned, I would protect them there at any cost. We have given no assent to the agreement of European nations that the Dardanelles should be closed; and if it were necessary to protect American citizens and their property, I would order United States ships, in spite of forts, in spite of agreements, to sail up the Dardanelles, plant themselves before Constantinople, and demand that American citizens should have the protection to which they are entitled. I do not love Great Britain particularly; but I think that one of the grandest things in all the history of Great Britain is that she does protect her subjects everywhere, anywhere, and under all circumstances. This incident is a marvellous illustration of the protection which Great Britain gives to her subjects: The King of Abyssinia took a British subject, about twenty years ago, carried him up to the fortress of Magdala, on the heights of a rocky mountain, and put him into a dungeon, without cause assigned. It took six months for Great Britain to find that out. Then she demanded his immediate release. King Theobald refused. In less than ten days after that refusal was received, ten thousand English soldiers were on board ships of war, and were sailing down the coast. When they reached the coast, they were disembarked, marched across that terrible country, a distance of seven hundred miles, under a burning sun, up the mountain, up to the very heights in front of the frowning dungeon; and there they gave battle, battered down the iron gates of the stone walls, reached down into the dungeon, and lifted out of it that one British subject. Then they carried him down the mountain, across the land, put him on board a white-winged ship, and sped him home in safety. That cost Great Britain twenty-five millions of dollars. But was it not a great thing for a great country to do? A country that can see across the ocean, across the land, away up to the mountain height, and away down to the darksome dungeon, one subject of hers, out of thirty-eight millions of people, and then has an arm strong enough, and long enough to stretch across the same ocean, across the same lands, up the same mountain heights, down to the same dungeon, and lift him out and carry him home to his own country and friends, in God's name, who would not die for a country that will do that? Well, our country will do it, and our country ought to do it; and all that I ask is that our country shall model itself after Great Britain in this one thing: The life of an American citizen must be protected, wherever he may be.—William P. Frye, from a speech delivered in the United States Senate, on the Armenian resolutions.

STARS IN MY COUNTRY's SKY-ARE YE ALL THERE?

Are ye all there? Are ye all there,

Stars in my country's sky?

Are ye all there? Are ye all there,

In your shining homes on high?

“Count us! Count us,” was their answer,

As they dazzled on my view,

In glorious perihelion,

Amid their field of blue.

I cannot count ye rightly;

There's a cloud with sable rim;

I cannot make your number out,

For my eyes with tears are dim.

O bright and blessed angel,

On white wing floating by,

Help me to count, and not to miss

One star in my country's sky!

Then the angel touched mine eyelids,

And touched the frowning cloud;

And its sable rim departed,

And it fled with murky shroud.

There was no missing Pleiad

'Mid all that sister race;

The Southern Cross gleamed radiant forth,

And the Pole Star kept its place.

Then I knew it was the angel

Who woke the hymning strain

That at our Redeemer's birth

Pealed out o'er Bethlehem's plain;

And still its heavenly key-stone

My listening country held,

For all her constellated stars

The diapason swelled.

— Lydia Huntley Sigourney.

E PLURIBUS UNUM.

Though many and bright are the stars that appear

In that flag by our country unfurled,

And the stripes that are swelling in majesty there,

Like a rainbow adorning the world,

Their light is unsullied as those in the sky

By a deed that our fathers have done,

And they're linked in as true and as holy a tie

In their motto of “Many in one.”

—

* * * * * * *

Then up with our flag!—let it stream on the air;

Though our fathers are cold in their graves,

They had hands that could strike, they had souls that could dare,

And their sons were not born to be slaves.

Up, up with that banner! where'er it may call,

Our millions shall rally around,

And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall

When its stars shall be trailed on the ground.

— George Washington Cutler.

—

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.

NOTE:—This song was inspired by a visit of Mrs. Howe to the “Circling Camps” around Washington, gathered for the defence of

the Capital, early in the War of 1861-5.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

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