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Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on.
Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn,
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 35
And when the cannon mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabers rise and fall
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea

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WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878)

William Cullen Bryant is usually classed with the Knickerbocker group of writers, but in all of his poetic work that is distinctive he was no more a Knickerbocker than was Whittier. He was a New Englander of the New Englanders, a descendant from several lines of Puritans; he was reared amid the strictest of Puritan ideals, and his poetic art and his outlook upon life were all Puritanic.

He was born among the Berkshire Hills at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. His father, a country doctor, had in his youth seen much of the world as a surgeon on a merchant vessel, and it was from him that art and culture had come into the boy's life. He had gathered a notable collection of books which the young Bryant, a precocious lad, made full use of. At thirteen the boy, fragile and over-intellectual, threatened with consumption, was writing poetry that his father thought worthy of publication in pamphlet form, The Embargo (1809), a satire on Madison's administration, so successful that a second edition was prepared. At fifteen he entered the sophomore class at Williams College, but after two terms he discontinued his course, thinking Yale more fitted to give him the training he required. But his means were limited and after an autumn spent at home, a period of poetical reading and composition, during which he produced the first draught of Thanatopsis' and 'Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood,' he turned from the muses and began the study of law. He was admitted to the bar in 1815 and for several years practised his profession with diligence. The publication of Thanatopsis in The North American Review in September, 1817, placed him at a bound among the recognized poets of America, and led him again to turn to poetry. In 1821 he read The Ages before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, and the same year he issued in book form the poem with the early North American Review lyrics and a few others added. Its success turned his thoughts to a literary career. In 1825 he removed to New York City, and after a year spent in editing small magazines, he became assistant editor and shortly after editor-in-chief of the Daily Evening Post, a position which he held with distinction for half a century.

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His distinctively poetic career ended with the volume of poems he published in 1832. He wrote much after this, he was in his later years much in demand as an occasional poet and orator, but the poems that give him his place among the few American poets that may be called classics, were all written before journalism had laid its compelling hand upon him. His translation of the Iliad and the Odyssey in his last years is worthy of mention as a remarkable achievement of a man of his age, but the work is in no other way distinctive.

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Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall
claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,

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Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs

No school of long experience, that the world

Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 5 And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade

Shall bring a kindred calm; and the sweet breeze,

That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm

To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here

Of all that pained thee in the haunts of

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Yet fair as thou art, thou shunn'st to glide,

Beautiful stream! by the village side;
But windest away from the haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen;

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And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 30
Lonely save when, by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to look;
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me,
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee,
Still save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur of fairy shout,
From dawn, to the blush of another day,
Like traveler singing along his way.

That fairy music I never hear,

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Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight, 45
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 50
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my
heart;

And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.

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