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The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviours of the land!
O! few and weak their numbers were,
A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their prayer,
And rushed to battle then.

The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered on the plain,
And mustered in their simple dress,

For wrongs to seek a stern redress;

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, -
To perish or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?

And where are ye to-day?

I call :

the hills reply again

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright, Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast

Shall muster them no more ;

An army now might thunder past,

And they not heed its roar.

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.

I. M'Lellan,

CCXXII.

NEVER GIVE UP.

NEVER give up!- it is wiser and better

Always to hope, than once to despair; Fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetters, And break the dark spell of tyrannical care.

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Providence kindly has mingled the cup;

And in all trials and troubles bethink you,

The watchword of life must be, "Never give up!"

Never give up; there are chances and changes,
Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one,
And through the chaos, High Wisdom arranges
Ever success, if you I'll only hold on.

Never give up; for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest,

Is the stern watchword of "Never give up!"

Never give up, though the grape-shot may rattle,
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst;

Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.

Never give up; if adversity presses,

Providence wisely has mingled the cup;
And the best counsel in all your distresses
Is the brave watchword of " Never give up!"

Anonymous

CCXXIII.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

AT midnight, in his guarded tent,

Α

The Turk was dreaming of the hour,

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring;
Then pressed that monarch's throne
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

a king;

There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platea's day ;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on the Turk awoke;

That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke - to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet-loud, Bozzaris cheer his band:

Strike

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"Strike till the last armed foe expires;
for your altars and fires;
for the green graves of your sires,

Strike

GOD - and

They fought

your

your

native land!"

like brave men, long and well;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain;

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Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine, —
And thou art terrible! - The tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.

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We tell thy doom without a sigh ;

For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,

One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die!

F. G. Halleck.

CCXXIV.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

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!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning's 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

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