No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between our loved home and the war's desolation;

Bless'd with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,

And this be our motto, “In God is our trust ;"

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

THE CHARGE AT WATERLOO.

ON came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast;

On came the whirlwind-steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked anew.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.

Beneath their fire, in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,

And, hurrying as to havoc near,

The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent, broad and strong,

The advancing onset rolled along,

Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,

That from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.
But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude;
Nor was one forward footstep stayed,
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square!

And on the wounded and the slain
Closed their diminished files again;

Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see

Helmet, and plume, and panoply—

Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,

As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.

Then down went helm and lance,

Down rent the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corselets were pierced, and pennons rent;
And to augment the fray,

Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way:

Then to the musket knell succeeds
The clash of swords-the neigh of steeds:
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer, and guard, and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot,-
-a mingled host,
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.

GERALD MASSEY.

THE BATTLE MARCH.

Now glory to our England,

As she rises, calm and grand,

With the ancient spirit in her eyes,-
The good Sword in her hand!
Our royal right on battle-ground,

Was aye to bear the brunt:

Ho! brave heart! for one passionate bound,

And take thy place in front!

Now glory to our England,

As she rises, calm and grand, With the ancient spirit in her eyesThe good Sword in her hand!

Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life

I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage,
And glory in the strife?

Her stem is thorny, but doth burst
A glorious Rose a-top!

And shall our dear Rose wither? First
We'll drain life's dearest drop!
Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life

I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage,
And glory in the strife?

To battle goes our England,
All as gallant and as gay
As Lover to the Altar, on

A merry marriage-day.

A weary night she stood to watch
The battle-dawn up-rolled;

And her spirit leaps within, to match
The noble deeds of old.

To battle goes our England,
All as gallant and as gay
As Lover to the Altar, on
A merry marriage-day.

Now, fair befall our England,

On her proud and perilous road;
And woe and wail to those who make
Her footprints red with blood!
Up with our red-cross banner-roll
A thunder-peal of drums!
Fight on there, every valiant soul,
And courage! England comes !
Now, fair befall our England,

On her proud and perilous road;
And woe and wail to those who make
Her footprints red with blood!

Now, victory to our England!

And where'er she lifts her hand
In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear old land!

And when the storm has passed away,
In glory and in calm,

May she sit down i' the green o' the day,
And sing her peaceful psalm,
Now, victory to our England!

And where'er she lifts her hand
In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear Old Land!

LAISSEZ ALLER!

No more words:

Try it with your swords!

FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON.

Try it with the arms of your bravest and your best,
You are proud of your manhood, now put it to the test:
Not another word:

Try it by the sword.

No more Notes:

Try it by the throats.

Of the cannon that will roar till the earth and air be shaken, For they speak what they mean, and they cannot be mistaken: No more doubt:

Come-fight it out.

No child's play!
Waste not a day:

Serve out the deadliest weapons that you know,
Let them pitilessly hail in the faces of the foe:
No blind strife:
Waste not one life.

You that in the front

Bear the battle's brunt

When the sun gleams at dawn on the bayonets abreast, Think of England still asleep beyond the curtain of the west.

For love of all you guard,

Stand, and strike hard.

You that stay at home,

Behind the wall of foam

Leave not a jot to chance, while you rest in quiet ease:

Quick! forge the bolts of death; quick! ship them o'er the seas: If War's feet are lame,

Yours will be the blame.

You, my lads, abroad,
"Steady!" be your word:

You at home, be the anchor of your host across the wave, Spare no cost, none is lost, that may strengthen or may save: Sloth were sin and shame:

Now, play out the game.

MY FATHERLAND.

Where is the minstrel's fatherland?

Where noble spirits beam in light,

Where love-wreaths bloom for beauty bright;
Where noble minds enraptured dream

Of every high and hallowed theme.

This was the minstrel's fatherland.

How name ye the minstrel's fatherland?

Now o'er the corses of children slain,
She weeps a foreign tyrant's reign;
She once was the land of the good oak-tree,
The German land-the land of the free.

So named we once my fatherland!

Why weeps the minstrel's fatherland?

She weeps, that for a tyrant still,
Her princes check their people's will;
That her sacred words unheeded fly,

And that none will list to her vengeful cry.

Therefore weeps my fatherland!

Whom calls the minstrel's fatherland?

She calls upon the God of Heaven,

In a voice which vengeance'-self hath given;
She calls on a free, devoted band;
She calls for an avenging hand;

Thus calls the minstrel's fatherland!

KORNER