And is the old flag flying still
That o'er your fathers flew,
With bands of white and rosy light,
And field of starry blue?
-Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft
Have braved the roaring blast,
And still shall fly when from the sky
This black typhoon has past!

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark!
May I thy peril share?

O landsmen, these are fearful seas
The brave alone may dare!
-Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,
What matters wind or wave?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
Will leave me nought to save!

O landsman, art thou false or true?
What sign hast thou to show?
The crimson stains from loyal veins
That hold my heart-blood's flow!
Enough! what more shall honor claim?
I know the sacred sign;

Above thy head our flag shall spread,
Our ocean path be thine!

The bark sails on the Pilgrim's Cape

Lies low along her lee,

Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes To lock the shore and sea.

No treason here! it cost too dear

To win this barren realm!

And true and free the hands must be
That hold the whaler's helm!

Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay
No Rebel cruiser scars;

Her waters feel no pirate's keel
That flaunts the fallen stars!

-But watch the light on yonder height,—
Ay, pilot, have a care!

Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud
The Capes of Delaware!

Say, pilot, what this fort may be
Whose sentinels look down

From moated walls that show the sea
Their deep embrasures' frown?
The Rebel host claims all the coast,
But these are friends, we know,
Whose footprints spoil the" sacred soil,"
And this is?- -Fort Monroe!

The breakers roar,-how bears the shore?
-The traitorous wreckers' hands
Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays
Along the Hatteras sands.

Ha! say not so! I see its glow!

Again the shoals display

The beacon light that shines by night,
The Union Stars by day!

The good ship flies to milder skies,
The wave more gently flows;

The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas
The breath of Beaufort's rose.

What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
Fair-striped and many-starred,

Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,
The twins of Beauregard ?

What! heard you not Port Royal's doom?
How the black war-ships came

And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom
To redder wreaths of flame?
How from Rebellion's broken reed
We saw his emblem fall,
As soon his cursed poison-weed
Shall drop from Sumter's wall?

On! on! Pulaski's iron hail
Falls harmless on Tybee!

The good ship feels the freshening gale,——
She strikes the open sea;

She rounds the point, she threads the keys
That guard the Land of Flowers,
And rides at last where firm and fast
Her own Gibraltar towers!

The good ship Union's voyage is o'er,
At anchor safe she swings,

And loud and clear with cheer on cheer
Her joyous welcome rings:

Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave,
It thunders on the shore,-

One flag, one land, one heart, one hand,
One Nation, evermore!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY.

THE knightliest of the knightly race,
Who, since the days of old,

Have kept the lamp of chivalry

Alight in hearts of gold;

The kindliest of the kindly band,

Who, rarely hunting ease,

Yet rode with Spotswood round the land,

And Raleigh round the seas;

Who climbed the blue Virginian hills,

Against embattled foes,

And planted there in valleys fair

The lily and the rose;

Whose fragrance lives in many lands,

Whose beauty stars the earth,

And lights the hearts of many homes
In loveliness and worth.

We thought they slept-the sons who kept
The names of noble sires,

And slumbered while the darkness crept
Around the vigil fires.

But still the Golden Horseshoe knights
Their old dominion keep,

Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
But not a knight asleep.

FRANCIS O. TICKNOR.

KEARNEY AT SEVEN PINES.

[May 31, 1862.]

So that soldierly legend is still on its journeyThat story of Kearney who knew not to yield! 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and

Birney,

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,

Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,

Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,

No charge like Phil Kearney's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,

Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,

He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound.

He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the pow

der,

His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign; Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder :

"There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten

In the one hand still left-and the reins in his

teeth!

He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,

Asking where to go in-through the clearing or pine ?

"O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel : You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!" O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,'

That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!

Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's

pride!

Yet we dream that he still-in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan

drummer's sign

Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

1 General Philip Kearney lost his life at the battle of Chantilly, Va., Sept. 1, 1862, by becoming separated from his men and riding by mistake into the Confederate line. It was growing dark and raining heavily, when Kearney, coming suddenly upon some skirmishers, asked what troops they were; but perceiving they were Confederates, he wheeled his horse and dashed away. Half-adozen shots rang out, and he fell dead.