No More Learning

"Well! " said Captain Spang, but with an air so absent-
minded and a bearing so irresolute that Tönnes at last took a
firm hold on him.
Prussian showed his teeth at his former master.
"You go first! " exclaimed Tönnes, snatching the dog and
throwing him down to the men, who were having hard work to
keep the boat from wrecking.
When the dog was no longer on the deck, it seemed as if
Captain Spang's resistance was broken. Tönnes did not let go
his hold on him; but the young mate had to use almost super-
human strength to get the heavy old man down over the vessel's
side and placed on a seat in the boat.
As soon as they had observed from the brig that this had
been done, they hauled in both lines. The boat moved back
again; but it was a dangerous voyage, and all were obliged to
lash themselves fast to the thwarts with ropes placed there for
that purpose.
Captain Spang was like a child. Tönnes had to lash him to
the seat. The old man sat with his face hidden in his hands,
his back turned toward his ship, inactive, and seemingly uncon-
scious of what took place around him.
At last, when after a hard struggle all were on the deck of
the schooner-brig, her captain came forward, placed his hand on
his old friend's shoulder, and said:-
"It is the second time, you see! Well, we all cling to life,
and the vessel over there is pretty old. ”
-


## p. 4847 (#645) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4847
Captain Spang started. He scarcely returned his friend's
hand-shaking.
"My vessel, I say! My papers! All that I have is in the
vessel. I must go aboard, do you hear? I must go aboard.
How could I forget? "
The other skipper and Tönnes looked at each other.
Captain Spang wrung his hands and stamped on the deck, his
eyes fixed on his sinking vessel. She was still afloat; what did
he care for the gale and the heavy sea? He belonged to the old
school of skippers; he was bound to his vessel by ties longer
than any life-line, heavier than any hawser; he had left his ship
in a bewildered state, and had taken nothing with him that
might serve to prove what he possessed and how long he had
possessed it. His good old vessel was still floating on the water.
He must, he would go there; if nobody would go with him, he
would go alone.
All remonstrances were in vain.
Tönnes pressed the other skipper's hand.
"There is nothing else to be done. I know him," said he.
"So do I," was the answer.
Captain Spang and his mate were again in the boat. As they
were on the point of starting, a loud whine and violent barking
sounded from the deck, and Prussian showed his one eye over
the railing.
"Stay where you are! " cried Tönnes. "We shall be back
soon. "
But the dog did not understand him. Perhaps he had his
doubts; no one can say. He sprang overboard; Tönnes seized
him by the ear, and hauled him into the boat.
And then the two men and the dog ventured back to the
abandoned vessel.
This time the old man climbed on board without assistance.
Prussian whined in the boat.
"Throw that dog up to me! " cried the master.
Tönnes did so.
"Shall I come up and help you? " he called out.
"No, I can find my own way. "
"But hurry, captain! do you understand? " said Tönnes, who
anxiously noticed that the motions of the vessel were becoming
more and more dangerous, while he needed all his strength to
keep the boat clear of the wreck.


## p. 4848 (#646) ###########################################

4848
HOLGER DRACHMANN
An answer came from the bark, but he could not catch it.
In this moment Tönnes recalled the day when he rowed the
captain out on the bay to the brig. His next thought was of
Nanna. Oh, if she knew where they were!
And at this thought the mate's breast was filled with conflict-
ing emotions. The dear blessed girl! - Oh, if her father would
only come!
"Captain! " cried Tönnes; "Captain Spang! for God's sake,
come! Leave those papers alone. The vessel is sinking. We
may at any moment-
>>
He paused.
The captain stood at the stern-sheets. At his side was Prus-
sian, squinting down into the boat. There was an entirely
strange expression in Andreas Spang's face; a double expression
- one moment hard and defiant, the next almost solemn.
The sou'wester had fallen from his old head.
His scanty
hairs fluttered in the wind. He held in his hand a parcel of
papers and a coil of rope. He pointed toward the brig.
There! " he cried, throwing the package and the rope down.
to Tönnes. "Give the skipper this new line for his trouble.
He has used plenty of rope for us. You go back. I stay here.
Give-my-love-to the girl at home. - You and she - You
two- God bless you! "
"Captain! " cried Tönnes in affright; "you are sick; come,
let me ->
-
He prepared to climb on board.
Captain Spang lifted his hand threateningly, and Prussian
barked furiously.
"Stay down there, boy, I say! The vessel and I, we belong
together. You shall take care of the girl. Good-by! "
The Anna Dorothea rolled heavily over on one side, righted
again, and then began to plunge her head downwards, like a
whale that, tired of the surface, seeks rest at the bottom. The
crew of the brig hauled in the lines of the boat. Tossed on the
turbid sea, Tönnes saw his old skipper leaning against the helm,
the dog at his side. His gray hairs fluttered in the wind as
if they wafted a last farewell; and down with vessel and dog
went the old skipper-down into the wild sea that so long had
borne him on its waves.


## p. 4849 (#647) ###########################################

HOLGER DRACHMANN
4849
THE PRINCE'S SONG
From Once Upon a Time>
PR
RINCESS, I come from out a land that lieth-
I know not in what arctic latitude:
Though high in the bleak north, it never sigheth
For sunny smiles; they wait not to be wooed.
Our privilege we know: the bright half-year
Illumines sea and shore with sunlit glory;
In twilight then our fertile fields we ear,
And round our brows we twine a wreath of story.
When winter decks with frost the bearded oak,
In songs and sagas we our youth recover;
Around the hearthstone crowd the listening folk,
While on the wall mysterious shadows hover.
The summer night, suffused with loving glow,
The future, dawning in a golden chalice,
Enkindles hope in hearts of high and low,
From peasant's cottage to the royal palace.
The snow of winter spreads o'er hill and valley
Its soft and silken blue-white veil of sleep;
The springtime bids the green-clad earth to rally,
When through the budding leaves the sunbeams peep.
The autumn brings fresh breezes from the ocean
And paints the lad's fair cheeks a rosy red;
The maiden's heart is stirred with new emotion,
When summer's fragrance o'er the world is spread.
To roam in our fair land is like a dream,
Through these still woods, renowned in ancient story,
Along the shores, deep-mirrored in the gleam
Of fjords that shine beneath the sky's blue glory.
Upon the meadows where the flowers bloom
The elfin maidens hide themselves in slumbers,
But soon along the lakes where shadows gloom
In every bosky nook they'll dance their numbers.
VIII-304
There are no frowning crags on our green mountains,
No dark, forbidding cliffs where gorges yawn;
The streams flow gently seaward from their fountains,
As through the silent valley steals the dawn.


## p. 4850 (#648) ###########################################

4850
HOLGER DRACHMANN
Here nature smoothes the rugged, tames the savage,
And men born here in victory are kind,
Forbearing still the foeman's land to ravage,
And in defeat they bear a steadfast mind.
I'm proud of land, of kindred, and of nation,
I'm proud my home is where the waters flow;
Afar I see in golden radiation
My native land like sun through amber glow.
Its warmth revives my heart, however lonely:
Forgive me, Princess, if my soul's aflame,—
But rather be at home, a beggar only,
Than, exiled thence, have universal fame.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.


## p. 4851 (#649) ###########################################

4851
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
(1795-1820)
CONSPICUOUS among the young poets, essayists, and journalists,
who made up literary New York in the early part of the
century, was Joseph Rodman Drake, the friend of Halleck,
and the best beloved perhaps of all that brilliant group. Hardly
known to this generation save by The Culprit Fay' and 'The Amer-
ican Flag,' Drake was essentially a true poet and a man of letters.
His work was characteristic of his day. He had a certain amount of
classical knowledge, a certain eighteenth-century grace and style, yet
withal, an instinctive Americanism which
flowered out into our first true national
literature. The group of writers among
whom were found Irving, Halleck, Wil-
lis, Dana, Hoffman, Verplanck, Brockden
Brown, and a score of others, reflected
that age in which they sought their lit-
erary models. With the exception of Poe,
who belonged to a somewhat later time
and whose genius was purely subjective,
much of the production of these Americans
followed the lines of their English prede-
cessors,-Johnson, Goldsmith, Addison, and

Steele. It is only in their deeper moments JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
of thought and feeling that there sounds
that note of love of country, of genuine Americanism, which gives
their work individuality, and which will keep their memory green.
Drake was born in New York, in August 1795. He was descended
from the same family as the great admiral of Elizabethan days, the
American branch of which had served their country honorably both
in colonial and Revolutionary times. The scenes of his boyhood
were the same as those that formed the environment of Irving,
memories of which are scattered thick through the literature of the
day. New York was still a picturesque, hospitable, rural capital, the
centre of the present town being miles distant in the country. The
best families were all intimately associated in a social life that was
cultivated and refined at the same time that it was gay and uncon-
ventional; and in this society Drake occupied a place which his lov-
able qualities and fine talents must have won, even had it been


## p. 4852 (#650) ###########################################

4852
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
denied him by birth.
He was a precocious boy, for whom a career
was anticipated by his friends while he was yet a mere child; and
when he met Halleck, in his eighteenth year, he had already won
some reputation.
The friendship of Drake and Halleck was destined to prove infi-
nitely valuable to both. A discussion between Cooper, Halleck, and
Drake, upon the poetic inspiration of American scenery, prompted
Drake to write The Culprit Fay'-a poem without any human
character. This he completed in three days, and offered it as the
argument on his side. The scene of the poem is laid in the High-
lands of the Hudson, but Drake added many pictures suggested by
memories of Long Island Sound, whose waters he haunted with boat
and rod. He apologized for this by saying that the purposes of poetry
alone could explain the presence so far up the Hudson of so many
salt-water emigrants. The Culprit Fay' is a creation of pure fancy,
full of delicate imagery, and handled with an ethereal lightness of
touch. Its exquisite grace, its delicate coloring, its prodigality of
charm, explain its immediate popularity and its lasting fame. But
the Rip Van Winkle legend is a far more genuine product of fancy.
Drake's few shorter lyrics throb with genuine poetic feeling, and
show the loss sustained by literature in the author's early death.
Best known of these is 'The American Flag,' which appeared in the
Evening Post as one of a series of jeux d'esprit, the joint productions
of Halleck and Drake, who either alternated in the composition of
the numbers or wrote them together. The last four lines only of
'The American Flag' are Halleck's. The entire series appeared be-
tween March and July, 1819, under the signature of "The Croakers. ”
Literary New York was mystified as to the authorship of these skits,
which hit off the popular fads, follies, and enthusiasms of the day
with so easy and graceful a touch. Politics, music, the drama, and
domestic life alike furnished inspiration for the numbers; some of
whose titles, as 'A Sketch of a Debate in Tammany' and 'The
Battery War,' suggest the local political issues of the present day.
There is now in existence a handsome edition of these verses, with
the names of the authors of the several pieces appended, and in the
case of the joint ownership with the initials D. and H. subscribed.
Drake's complete poems were not published during his lifetime.
Sixteen years after his death by consumption in his twenty-sixth
year, his daughter issued a volume dedicated to Halleck, in which
were included the best specimens of her father's work. Many of the
lesser known verses indicate his true place as a poet. In the touch-
ing poem 'Abelard to Eloise,' in the third stanza of The American
Flag,' and in innumerable beautiful lines scattered throughout his
work, appears a genuine inspiration.


## p. 4853 (#651) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4853
In his own day, Drake filled a place which his death left forever
vacant. His rare and winning personality, his generous friendships,
his joy in life, and his courage in the contemplation of his inevitable
fate, still appeal to a generation to whom they are but traditions.
The exquisite monody in which Halleck celebrated his loss, links their
names and decorates their friendship with imperishable garlands.
A WINTER'S TALE
From The Croakers'
"A merry heart goes all the way,
A sad one tires in a mile-a. »
-WINTER'S TALE.
-
HE man who frets at worldly strife
THE Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold;
He smiles when others sigh;
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs through wet and dry.
There's fun in everything we meet;
The greatest, worst, and best
Existence is a merry treat,
And every speech a jest:
Be 't ours to watch the crowds that pass
Where mirth's gay banner waves;
To show fools through a quizzing glass,
And bastinade the knaves.
The serious world will scold and ban,
In clamor loud and hard,
To hear Meigs* called a Congressman,
And Paulding called a bard:
But come what may, the man's in luck
Who turns it all to glee,
And laughing, cries with honest Puck,
"Good Lord! what fools ye be! "
*Henry Meigs of New York, a Congressman from 1819 to 1821 in the
Sixteenth Congress.


## p. 4854 (#652) ###########################################

4854
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
THE CULPRIT FAY
My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo!
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales,
I see old Fairyland's miraculous show!
Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales,
Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze,
And fairies, swarming.
TENNANT'S ANSTER FAIR'
'T'S
Is the middle watch of a summer's night-
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Naught is seen in the vault on high
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest;
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark —
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.
The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still;
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid;
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katydid;
And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill,
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings,
Ever a note of wail and woe,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.
'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;


## p. 4855 (#653) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4855
He has counted them all with click and stroke
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
And he has awakened the sentry elve
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry;
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)
"Midnight comes, and all is well!
Hither, hither, wing your way!
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day. "
They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullein's velvet screen;
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,
And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest-
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o'clock,
And stole within its purple shade.
And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above, below, on every side,
Their little minim forms arrayed
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride!
They come not now to print the lea,
In freak and dance around the tree,
Or at the mushroom board to sup,
And drink the dew from the buttercup;-
A scene of sorrow waits them now,
For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow;
He has loved an earthly maid,
And left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew,
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,
Played in the ringlets of her hair,
And nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king's behest.


## p. 4856 (#654) ###########################################

4856
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
For this the shadowy tribes of air
To the elfin court must haste away:
And now they stand expectant there,
To hear the doom of the culprit fay.
The throne was reared upon the grass,
Of spice-wood and of sassafras;
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell
Hung the burnished canopy –
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell
Of the tulip's crimson drapery.
The monarch sat on his judgment seat;
On his brow the crown imperial shone;
The prisoner fay was at his feet,
And his peers were ranged around the throne.
He waved his sceptre in the air,
He looked around and calmly spoke;
His brow was grave and his eye severe,
But his voice in a softened accent broke:-
"Fairy! Fairy! list and mark:
Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain-
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity
In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye;
Thou hast scorned our dread decree,
And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high.
But well I know her sinless mind
Is pure as the angel forms above,
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,
Such as a spirit well might love;
Fairy! had she spot or taint,
Bitter had been thy punishment:
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings;
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings;
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell;
Or every night to writhe and bleed
Beneath the tread of the centipede;
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim,
Amid the carrion bodies to lie
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly:


## p. 4857 (#655) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4857
These it had been your lot to bear,
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.
Now list, and mark our mild decree —
Fairy, this your doom must be:-
"Thou shalt seek the beach of sand
Where the water bounds the elfin land;
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,
Then dart the glistening arch below,
And catch a drop from his silver bow.
The water-sprites will wield their arms
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms;
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might:
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.
"If the spray-bead gem be won,
The stain of thy wing is washed away;
But another errand must be done
Ere thy crime be lost for aye:
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,—
Thou must re-illume its spark.
Mount thy steed and spur him high
To the heaven's blue canopy;
And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, fay;
Hence! to the water-side, away! "
The goblin marked his monarch well;
He spake not, but he bowed him low,
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,
And turned him round in act to go.
The way is long; he cannot fly;
His soiled wing has lost its power,
And he winds adown the mountain high
For many a sore and weary hour.
Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,


## p. 4858 (#656) ###########################################

4858
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Over the grass and through the brake,
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;
Now o'er the violet's azure flush
He skips along in lightsome mood;
And now he thrids the bramble-bush,
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.
He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier.
He has swum the brook and waded the mire,
Till his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak,
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.
He had fallen to the ground outright,
For rugged and dim was his onward track,
But there came a spotted toad in sight,
And he laughed as he jumped upon her back:
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,
He lashed her sides with an osier thong.
And now, through evening's dewy mist,
With leap and spring they bound along,
Till the mountain's magic verge is past,
And the beach of sand is reached at last.
Up, fairy! quit thy chickweed bower,
The cricket has called the second hour;
Twice again, and the lark will rise
To kiss the streaking of the skies-
Up! thy charmèd armor don;
Thou'lt need it ere the night be gone.
He put his acorn helmet on:
It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down;
The corselet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee's golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
reen;
Studs of gold on a ground of
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his firefly steed;
He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,
And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens, and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.


## p. 4859 (#657) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4859-
The moth-fly, as he shot in air,
Crept under the leaf and hid her there;
The katydid forgot its lay,
The prowling gnat fled fast away,
The fell mosquito checked his drone
And folded his wings till the fay was gone,
And the wily beetle dropped his head,
And fell on the ground as if he were dead;
They crouched them close in the darksome shade,
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,
For they had felt the blue-bent blade,
And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear;
Many a time, on a summer's night,
When the sky was clear, and the moon was bright,
They had been roused from the haunted ground
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound;
They had heard the tiny bugle-horn,
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string,
When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn,
And the needle-shaft through air was borne,
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing.
And now they deemed the courier ouphe
Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground;
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof
That canopies the world around;
Then glad they left their covert lair,
And freaked about in the midnight air.
Up to the vaulted firmament
His path the firefly courser bent,
And at every gallop on the wind,
He flung a glittering spark behind;
He flies like a feather in the blast
Till the first light cloud in heaven is past.
But the shapes of air have begun their work,
And a drizzly mist is round him cast;
He cannot see through the mantle murk;
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast;
Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade,
He lashes his steed, and spurs amain-
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein,
And flame-shot tongues around him played,
And near him many a fiendish eye
Glared with a fell malignity,


## p. 4860 (#658) ###########################################

4860
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear,
Came screaming on his startled ear.
His wings are wet around his breast,
The plume hangs dripping from his crest,
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare,
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare.
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew;
He thrust before and he struck behind,
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through,
And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind;
Howling the misty spectres flew;
They rend the air with frightful cries;
For he has gained the welkin blue,
And the land of clouds beneath him lies.
Up to the cope careering swift,
In breathless motion fast,
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,
Or the sea-roc rides the blast,
The sapphire sheet of eve is shot,
The sphered moon is past,
The earth but seems a tiny blot
On a sheet of azure cast.
Oh! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight,
To tread the starry plain of even!
To meet the thousand eyes of night,
And feel the cooling breath of heaven!
But the elfin made no stop or stay
Till he came to the bank of the Milky Way;
Then he checked his courser's foot,
And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot.
Sudden along the snowy tide
That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall,
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide,
Attired in sunset's crimson pall;
Around the fay they weave the dance,
They skip before him on the plain,
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance,
And one upholds his bridle rein;
With warblings wild they lead him on
To where, through clouds of amber seen,
Studded with stars, resplendent shone
The palace of the sylphid queen.


## p. 4861 (#659) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4861
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright,
Were streamers of the northern light;
Its curtain's light and lovely flush
Was of the morning's rosy blush;
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon,
The white and feathery fleece of noon.
Borne afar on the wings of the blast,
Northward away he speeds him fast,
And his courser follows the cloudy wain
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain.
The clouds roll backward as he flies,
Each flickering star behind him lies,
And he has reached the northern plain,
And backed his firefly steed again,
Ready to follow in its flight
The streaming of the rocket-light.
The star is yet in the vault of heaven,
But it rocks in the summer gale;
And now 'tis fitful and uneven,
And now 'tis deadly pale;
And now 'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke,
And quenched is its rayless beam;
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke
It bursts in flash and flame.
As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance
That the storm spirit flings from high,
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue,
As it fell from the sheeted sky.
As swift as the wind in its train behind
The elfin gallops along:
The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud,
But the sylphid charm is strong;
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire,
While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze;
He watches each flake till its sparks expire,
And rides in the light of its rays.
But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed,
And caught a glimmering spark;
Then wheeled around to the fairy ground,
And sped through the midnight dark.


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4862
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite!
Elf of eve! and starry fay!
Ye that love the moon's soft light,
Hither, hither, wend your way;
Twine ye in a jocund ring,
Sing and trip it merrily,
Hand to hand, and wing to wing,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.
Hail the wanderer again
With dance and song, and lute and lyre;
Pure his wing and strong his chain,
And doubly bright his fairy fire.
Twine ye in an airy round,
Brush the dew and print the lea;
Skip and gambol, hop and bound,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.
The beetle guards our holy ground,
flies about the haunted place,
And if mortal there be found,
He hums in his ears and flaps his face;
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay,
The owlet's eyes our lanterns be;
Thus we sing and dance and play,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.
But hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry elf his call has made;
A streak is in the eastern sky;
Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in Morning's spring,
The skylark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn,-
The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone. .


## p. 4863 (#661) ###########################################

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
4863
THE AMERICAN FLAG
HEN Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
WH
And set the stars of glory there;
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave unto his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud!
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur-smoke.
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!
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 the sky-born glories burn,
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance;
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall,
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; —


## p. 4864 (#662) ###########################################

4864
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink 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
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!


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BROFESS
This book should be returned to
the Library on or before the last date
stamped below.
A fine is incurred by retaining it
beyond the specified time.
Please return promptly.
439458
FEB 22 1974 MARIED
FEB 22 1974 H
ct
CANCELLED
APR 74
SS
31
די
MAR 22 1974


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