THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

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 turnedFrom wandering on a foreign strand!If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no minstrel 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 downTo the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.Sir Walter Scott

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses!Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner, Oh, long may it waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.And where is that band who so vauntingly sworeThat the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA home and a country should leave us no more!Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution;No refuge should save the hireling and slaveFrom the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall standBetween their loved homes and war's desolation.Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued landPraise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,And this be our motto, "In God is our trust":And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall waveO'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.Francis Scott Key

My country, 'tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty,Of thee I sing.Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrims' pride,From every mountain sideLet freedom ring!My native country! Thee—Land of the noble free,—Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills;My heart with rapture thrillsLike that above.Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom's song.Let mortal tongues awake;Let all that breathe partake;Let rocks their silence break,—The sound prolong.Our fathers' God, to Thee,Author of liberty,To Thee we sing;Long may our land be brightWith freedom's holy light;Protect us by Thy might,Great God, our King!Samuel F. Smith

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 dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light.Then, from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.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.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!Joseph Rodman Drake

Our band is few but true and tried,Our leader frank and bold;The British soldier tremblesWhen Marion's name is told.Our fortress is the good greenwood,Our tent the cypress tree;We know the forest round us,As seamen know the sea.We know its walls of thorny vines,Its glades of reedy grass,Its safe and silent islandsWithin the dark morass.Woe to the English soldieryThat little dread us near!On them shall light at midnightA strange and sudden fearWhen, waking to their tents on fire,They grasp their arms in vain,And they who stand to face usAre beat to earth again;And they who fly in terror deemA mighty host behind,And hear the tramp of thousandsUpon the hollow wind.Then sweet the hour that brings releaseFrom danger and from toil:We talk the battle over,And share the battle's spoil.The woodland rings with laugh and shout,As if a hunt were up,And woodland flowers are gatheredTo crown the soldier's cup.With merry songs we mock the windThat in the pine-top grieves,And slumber long and sweetlyOn beds of oaken leaves.Well knows the fair and friendly moonThe band that Marion leads—The glitter of their rifles,The scampering of their steeds.'Tis life to guide the fiery barbAcross the moonlight plain;'Tis life to feel the night windThat lifts his tossing mane.A moment in the British camp—A moment—and away,Back to the pathless forest,Before the peep of day.Grave men there are by broad Santee,Grave men with hoary hairs;Their hearts are all with Marion,For Marion are their prayers.And lovely ladies greet our band,With kindliest welcoming,With smiles like those of summer,And tears like those of spring.For them we wear these trusty arms,And lay them down no moreTill we have driven the Briton,Forever from our shore.William Cullen Bryant

In their ragged regimentalsStood the old Continentals,Yielding not,When the grenadiers were lunging,And like hail fell the plungingCannon shot;When the filesOf the isles,From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampantUnicorn;And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummerThrough the morn!Then with eyes to the front all,And with guns horizontal,Stood our sires;And the balls whistled deadly,And in streams flashing redly,Blazed the fires:As the roarOn the shoreSwept the strong battle breakers o'er the green-sodded acresOf the plain;And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,Cracking amain!Now like smiths at their forgesWorked the red St. George'sCannoneers,And the villainous saltpetreRung a fierce, discordant meterRound their ears;As the swiftStorm drift,With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangorOn our flanks;Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fireThrough the ranks!Then the bareheaded colonelGalloped through the white infernalPowder cloud;And his broadsword was swinging,And his brazen throat was ringingTrumpet-loud;Then the blueBullets flew,And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of the leadenRifle breath;And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,Hurling death!Guy Humphreys McMaster

He lay upon his dying bed;His eye was growing dim,When with a feeble voice he calledHis weeping son to him:"Weep not, my boy!" the vet'ran said,"I bow to Heaven's high will—But quickly from yon antlers bringThe sword of Bunker Hill."The sword was brought, the soldier's eyeLit with a sudden flame;And as he grasped the ancient blade,He murmured Warren's name;Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold—But what is richer still,I leave you, mark me, mark me now—The sword of Bunker Hill."'Twas on that dread, immortal day,I dared the Briton's band,A captain raised this blade on me—I tore it from his hand:And while the glorious battle raged,It lightened freedom's will—For, boy, the God of freedom blessedThe sword of Bunker Hill."Oh, keep the sword!"—his accents broke—A smile—and he was dead—But his wrinkled hand still grasped the bladeUpon that dying bed.The son remains; the sword remains—Its glory growing still—And twenty millions bless the sire,And sword of Bunker Hill.William Ross Wallace

In a chariot of light from the regions of day,The Goddess of Liberty came;Ten thousand celestials directed the way,And hither conducted the dame.A fair budding branch from the gardens above,Where millions with millions agree,She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,And the plant she namedLiberty Tree.The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,Like a native it flourished and bore;The fame of its fruit drew the nation's around,To seek out this peaceable shore.Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,For freemen like brothers agree;With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,And their temple wasLiberty Tree.Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,Their bread in contentment they ateUnvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,The cares of the grand and the great.With timber and tar they Old England supplied,And supported her power on the sea;Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,For the honor ofLiberty Tree.But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,How all the tyrannical powers,Kings, Commons and Lords, are uniting amain,To cut down this guardian of ours;From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,Through the land let the sound of it flee,Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,In defense of ourLiberty Tree.Thomas Paine

Out of the North the wild news came,Far flashing on its wings of flame,Swift as the boreal light which fliesAt 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 everywhereThe 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 oakThe church of Berkeley Manor stood;There Sunday found the rural folk,And some esteemed of gentle blood.In vain their feet with loitering treadPassed 'mid the graves where rank is naught;All could not read the lesson taughtIn that republic of the dead.How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,The vale with peace and sunshine fullWhere all the happy people walk,Decked in their homespun flax and wool!Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom;And every maid with simple art,Wears on her breast, like her own heart,A bud whose depths are all perfume;While every garment's gentle stirIs breathing rose and lavender.The pastor came; his snowy locksHallowed 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 flameThe startling words for Freedom came.The stirring sentences he spakeCompelled the heart to glow or quake,And, rising on his theme's broad wing,And grasping in his nervous handThe imaginary battle brand,In face of death he dared to flingDefiance to a tyrant king.Even as he spoke, his frame, renewedIn eloquence of attitude,Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;Then swept his kindling glance of fireFrom startled pew to breathless choir;When suddenly his mantle wideHis hands impatient flung aside,And, lo! he met their wondering eyesComplete 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 roarRang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,Its long reverberating blow,So loud and clear, it seemed the earOf dusty death must wake and hear.And there the startling drum and fifeFired 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 flungFrom off its jubilant iron tongueWas, "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!"Thomas Buchanan Read

Foreseen in the vision of sages,Foretold when martyrs bled,She was born of the longing of ages,By the truth of the noble deadAnd the faith of the living fed!No blood in her lightest veinsFrets at remembered chains,Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head.In her form and features stillThe unblenching Puritan will,Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,The Quaker truth and sweetness,And the strength of the danger-girdled raceOf Holland, blend in a proud completeness.From the homes of all, where her being began,She took what she gave to Man;Justice, that knew no station,Belief, as soul decreed,Free air for aspiration,Free force for independent deed!She takes, but to give again,As the sea returns the rivers in rain;And gathers the chosen of her seedFrom the hunted of every crown and creed.Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;Her France pursues some dream divine;Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;Her Italy waits by the western brine;And, broad-based under all,Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood,As rich in fortitudeAs e'er went worldward from the island-wall!Fused in her candid light,To one strong race all races here unite;Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemenForget their sword and slogan, kith and clan.'Twas glory, once to be a Roman:She makes it glory, now, to be a man!Bayard Taylor

By the flow of the inland river,Whence the fleets of iron have fled,Where the blades of the grave grass quiver,Asleep are the ranks of the dead:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the one, the Blue,Under the other, the Gray.These in the robings of glory,Those in the gloom of defeat,All with the battle blood gory,In the dusk of eternity meet:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the laurel, the Blue,Under the willow, the Gray.From the silence of sorrowful hoursThe desolate mourners go,Lovingly laden with flowersAlike for the friend and the foe:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the roses, the Blue,Under the lilies, the Gray.So with an equal splendorThe morning sun rays fall,With a touch impartially tender,On the blossoms blooming for all:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Broidered with gold, the Blue,Mellowed with gold, the Gray.So, when the summer calleth,On forest and field of grain,With an equal murmur fallethThe cooling drip of the rain:Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Wet with the rain, the Blue,Wet with the rain, the Gray.Sadly, but not with upbraiding,The generous deed was done,In the storm of the years that are fading,No braver battle was wonUnder the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Under the blossoms, the Blue,Under the garlands, the Gray.No more shall the war cry sever,Or the winding rivers be red;They banish our anger foreverWhen they laurel the graves of our dead!Under the sod and the dew,Waiting the judgment day;Love and tears for the Blue,Tears and love for the Gray.Francis Miles Finch

Life may be given in many ways,And loyalty to Truth be sealedAs bravely in the closet as the field,So bountiful is Fate;But then to stand beside her,When craven churls deride her,To front a lie in arms and not to yield,This shows, methinks, God's planAnd measure of a stalwart man,Limbed like the old heroic breeds,Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth,Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,Fed from within with all the strength he needs.Such was he, our martyr chief,Whom late the Nation he had led,With ashes on her head,Wept with the passion of an angry grief:Forgive me, if from present things I turnTo speak what in my heart will beat and burn,And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn.Nature, they say, doth dote,And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote:For him her Old-World molds aside she threw,And, choosing sweet clay from the breastOf the unexhausted West,With stuff untainted shaped a hero new,Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true.How beautiful to seeOnce more a shepherd of mankind indeed,Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead;One whose meek flock the people joyed to be,Not lured by any cheat of birth,But by his clear-grained human worth,And brave old wisdom of sincerity!They knew that outward grace is dust;They could not choose but trustIn that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,And supple-tempered willThat bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.His was no lonely mountain peak of mind,Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,A sea mark now, now lost in vapor's blind;Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars.Nothing of Europe here,Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,Ere any names of serf and peerCould Nature's equal scheme defaceAnd thwart her genial will;Here was a type of the true elder race,And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.I praise him not; it were too late;And some innative weakness there must beIn him who condescends to victorySuch as the Present gives, and cannot wait,Safe in himself as in a fate.So always firmly he:He knew to bide his time,And can his fame abide,Still patient in his simple faith sublime,Till the wise years decide.Great captains, with their guns and drums,Disturb our judgment for the hour,But at last silence comes!These all are gone, and standing like a tower,Our children shall behold his fame,The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame,New birth of our new soil, the first American.James Russell Lowell

Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,A flash of color beneath the sky:Hats off!The flag is passing by!Blue and crimson and white it shines,Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines,Hats off!The colors before us fly;But more than the flag is passing by.Sea fights and land fights, grim and great,Fought to make and save the State:Weary marches and sinking ships;Cheers of victory on dying lips;Days of plenty and years of peace;March of a strong land's swift increase;Equal justice, right, and law,Stately honor and reverend awe;Sign of a nation, great and strongTo ward her people from foreign wrong:Pride and glory and honor—allLive in the colors to stand or fall.Hats off!Along the street there comesA blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums;And loyal hearts are beating high:Hats off!The flag is passing by!Henry Holcomb Bennett

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!Sail on, OUnion, strong and great!Humanity with all its fears,With all the hopes of future years,Is hanging breathless on thy fate!We know what Master laid thy keel,What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,What anvils rang, what hammers beat,In what a forge and what a heatWere shaped the anchors of thy hope!Fear not each sudden sound and shock,'Tis of the wave and not the rock;'Tis but the flapping of the sail,And not a rent made by the gale!In spite of rock and tempest's roarIn spite of false lights on the shore,Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,Are all with thee—are all with thee!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Old Glory! say who,By the ships and the crew,And the long, blended ranks of the grey and the blue—Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bearWith such pride everywhereAs you cast yourself free to the rapturous airAnd leap out full length as we're wanting you to?Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same,And the honor and fame so becoming to you?—Your stripes streaked in ripples of white and of red,With your stars at their glittering best overhead—By day or by night,Their delightfulest lightLaughing down from their little square heaven of blue!Who gave you the name of Old Glory?—say who—Who gave you the name of Old Glory?The old banner lifted, and faltering then,In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again.Old Glory,—speak out!—we are asking aboutHow you happened to "favor" a name, so to say,That sounds so familiar and careless and gayAs we cheer it and shout in our wild, breezy way—We—thecrowd, every man of us, calling you that—We—Tom, Dick and Harry—each swinging his hat—And hurrahing "Old Glory," like you were our kind,When—Lord—we all know we're as common as sin!And yet it just seems like youhumorus allAnd waft us your thanks as we hail you and fallInto line, with you over us, waving us onWhere our glorified, sanctified betters have gone—And this is the reason we're wanting to know—(And we're wanting it so!Where our own fathers went, we are willing to go)Who gave you the name of Old Glory—Oho!Who gave you the name of Old Glory?The old flag unfurled in a billowy thrillFor an instant, then wistfully sighed and was still.Old Glory—the story we're wanting to hearIs what the plain facts of your christening were—For your name—just to hear it,Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spiritAs salt as a tear;—And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by,There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eyeAnd an aching to live for you always—or die,If, dying, we still keep you waving on high.And so, by our loveFor you, floating above,And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof,Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and whyAre we thrilled at the name of Old Glory?Then the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast,And fluttered an audible answer at last.And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it said:—By the driven snow-white and the living blood-redOf my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead—By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast,As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast,Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod,—My name is as old as the glory of God,... So I came by the name of Old Glory.James Whitcomb Riley

FOOTNOTES:[1]By Ralph Waldo Emerson, at the dedication, April 19, 1836, of the monument erected at Concord in honor of the patriots who fell in the battle of Lexington sixty-one years before.[2]Published in the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.[3]Used with the courteous permission of the publishers, The J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia.[4]From the National Ode, July 4, 1876.[5]From the Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration, July 21, 1865.[6]From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

FOOTNOTES:

[1]By Ralph Waldo Emerson, at the dedication, April 19, 1836, of the monument erected at Concord in honor of the patriots who fell in the battle of Lexington sixty-one years before.

[2]Published in the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.

[3]Used with the courteous permission of the publishers, The J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia.

[4]From the National Ode, July 4, 1876.

[5]From the Ode recited at the Harvard Commemoration, July 21, 1865.

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