Schools and churches multiplying,

All the precious arts increase;
Fruits of labor, self-relying,

Wealth, with generous purpose vying,
Marks of freedom, skill, and peace.

Onward, flag of glory, flying,
Grandest earthly banner, thou;
Higher rise, to fame undying,
Borne aloft by Freedom now.
Thine, O Stars and Stripes, the story
Of a nation's wondrous birth,
Symbol of its brightening glory,
Won from field and conflict gory,
Symbol of its power and worth.

SYLVANUS DRYDEN PHELPS.

THE LAND OF THE SOUTH.

LAND of the South! imperial land!
How proud thy mountains rise!
How sweet thy scenes on every hand!
How fair thy covering skies!
But not for this,-oh, not for these,
I love thy fields to roam,—
Thou hast a dearer spell to me,

Thou art my native home!

Thy rivers roll their liquid wealth

Unequalled to the sea,

Thy hills and valleys bloom with health,

And green with verdure be!

But not for thy proud ocean streams,

Not for thine azure dome,

Sweet, sunny South, I cling to thee,—
Thou art my native home!

I've stood beneath Italia's clime,
Beloved of tale and song;

On Heloyn's hills, proud and sublime,
Where nature's wonders throng;
By Tempe's classic, sunlit streams,
Where gods of old did roam,-
But ne'er have found so fair a land
As thou, my native home!

And thou hast prouder glories, too,
Than nature ever gave:

Peace sheds o'er thee her genial dew,
And Freedom's pinions wave,
Fair Science flings her pearls around,
Religion lifts her dome,-

These, these endear thee to my heart,

My own loved native home!

And "Heaven's best gift to man" is thine,—
God bless thy rosy girls!

Like sylvan flowers, they sweetly shine,
Their hearts are pure as pearls !
And grace and goodness circle them

Where'er their footsteps roam.
How can I, then, whilst loving them,
Not love my native home!

Land of the South, imperial land!
Then here's a health to thee:
Long as thy mountain barriers stand
Mayst thou be blest and free!
May dark dissension's banner ne'er
Wave o'er thy fertile loam!

But should it come, there's one will die

To save his native home.

ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK.

THE BATTLE OF EUTAW.

HARK! 'tis the voice of the mountain,
And it speaks to our heart in its pride,
As it tells of the bearing of heroes

Who compassed its summits and died!
How they gathered to strife as the eagles,
When the foeman had clambered the height!
How, with scent keen and eager as beagles,
They hunted him down for the fight.

Hark! through the gorge of the valley, 'Tis the bugle that tells of the foe; Our own quickly sounds for the rally,

And we snatch down the rifle and go. As the hunter who hears of the panther, Each arms him and leaps to his steed, Rides forth through the desolate antre, With his knife and his rifle at need.

From a thousand deep gorges they gather,
From the cot lowly perched by the rill,
The cabin half hid in the heather,

'Neath the crag where the eagle keeps still; Each lonely at first in his roaming,

Till the vale to the sight opens fair,

And he sees the low cot through the gloaming, When his bugle gives tongue to the air.

Thus a thousand brave hunters assemble

For the hunt of the insolent foe,

And soon shall his myrmidons tremble

'Neath the shock of the thunder-bolt's blow. Down the lone heights now wind they together, As the mountain-brooks flow to the vale,

And now, as they group on the heather.
The keen scout delivers his tale ·

"The British-the Tories are on us,
And now is the moment to prove
To the women whose virtues have won us,
That our virtues are worthy their love!
They have swept the vast valleys below us,
With fire, to the hills from the sea;
And here would they seek to o'erthrow us
In a realm which our eagle makes free!"

No war-council suffered to trifle

With the hours devote to the deed;
Swift followed the grasp of the rifle,
Swift followed the bound to the steed;
And soon, to the eyes of our yeomen,
All panting with rage at the sight,
Gleamed the long wavy tents of the foeman,
As he lay in his camp on the height.

Grim dashed they away as they bounded,
The hunters to hem in the prey,

And, with Deckard's long rifles surrounded,
Then the British rose fast to the fray;
And never with arms of more vigor

Did their bayonets press through the strife, Where with every swift pull of the trigger The sharp-shooters dashed out a life!

'Twas the meeting of eagles and lions;

'Twas the rushing of tempests and waves;
Insolent triumph 'gainst patriot defiance,
Born freemen 'gainst sycophant slaves;
Scotch Ferguson sounding his whistle,
As from danger to danger he flies,

Feels the moral that lies in Scotch thistle,
With its "touch me who dare!" and he dies!

An hour, and the battle is over;

The eagles are rending the prey;

The serpents seek flight into cover,

But the terror still stands in the way:

More dreadful the doom that on treason

Avenges the wrongs of the state;

And the oak-tree for many a season

Bears fruit for the vultures of fate!

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS

PULASKI'S BANNER.

(Count Casimir Pulaski, the Polish patriot, killed at the siege of Savannah in 1779, had a crimson standard which had been worked for him by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.)

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowléd head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung

The crimson banner, that with prayer

Had been consecrated there,

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it, till our homes are free!
Guard it! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.