P.C. Home Page . Recent Additions
A B . C D .
E F . G H .
I J . K L .
M N . O P .
Q R . S T .
U V . W X .
- I: By H---y W. L-ngf----w
- BACK in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was
- Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
- Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens--
- Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.
- Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
- Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
- Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him
- Flutter'd and flam'd the original Star-Spangled Banner.
- II: By The Hon. Ch-----s S-mn-r
- POND'ROUS projectiles, hurl'd by heavy hands,
- Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
- Ere she a stadium had well advanced
- On the great path that to her greatness led;
- Her temple's propylon was shattered;
- Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
- Her incubus was from her bosom hurl'd;
- And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
- She took the oil with which her hair was curl'd
- To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.
- III: By J-hn Gr--nl--f Wh-t--r
- MY Native Land, thy Puritanic stock
- Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
- And all thy sons unite in one grand wish--
- To keep the virtues of Preserved Fish.
- Preserved Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
- Told our New England what her sons should do,
- And if they swerve from loyalty and right,
- Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.
- IV: By Dr. Ol-v-r W-nd-l H-lmes
- A DIANOSIS of our hist'ry proves
- Our native land a land its native loves;
- Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
- Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
- To love it more behold how foreign shores
- Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
- Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand--
- The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land.
- V: By R-lph W-ldo Em--s-n
- SOURCE immaterial of material naught,
- Focus of light infinitesimal,
- Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
- Of which the normal man is decimal.
- Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
- To the stars blent incipient on our flag,
- The beam translucent, neutrifying death;
- And raise to immortality the rag.
- VI: By W-ll--m C-ll-n B-y-nt
- THE sun sinks softly to his ev'ning post,
- The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
- Yet not a star our Flag of Heav'n has lost,
- And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.
- So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those
- New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
- But still our Country's nobler planet glows
- While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
- VII: By G--rge P. M-rr-s
- IN the days that tried our fahers,
- Many years ago,
- Our fair land achieved her freedom,
- Blood-bought, you know.
- Shall we not defend her ever
- As we'd defend
- That fair maiden, kind and tender,
- Calling us friend?
- Yes! Let all the echoes answer,
- From hill and vale;
- Yes! Let other nations, hearing,
- Joy in the tale.
- Our Columbia is a lady,
- High-born and fair;
- We have sworn allegiance to her--
- Touch her who dare.
- VIII: By N. P. W-ll-s
- ONE hue of our Flag is taken
- From the cheeks of my blushing Pet.
- And its stars beat time and sparkle
- Like the studs on her chemisette.
- Its blue is the ocean shadow
- That hides in her dreamy eyes,
- It conquers all men, like her,
- And still for a Union flies.
- IX: By Th-m-s B-il-y Ald--ch
- THE little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
- The cricket quaintly sings,
- The emerald pigeon nods his head,
- And the shad in the river springs,
- The dainty sunflow'r hangs its head
- On the shore of the summer sea;
- And better far that I were dead,
- If Maud did not love me.
- I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
- And the cricket that quaintly sings;
- And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
- And the shad that gayly springs.
- I love the dainty sunflow'r, too,
- And Maud with her snowy breast;
- I love them all;--but I love--I love--
- I love my country best.
- X: By R. H. St-d--rd
- BEHOLD the flag! Is it not a flag?
- Deny it, man, if you dare;
- And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky,
- It hangs like a written pray'r.
- Would impious hand of foe disturb
- Its memories' holy spell,
- And blight it with a dew of blood?
- Ha, tr-r-aitor! . . . . It is well.
- R. H. Newell
Poets' Corner .
H O M E .