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 nought 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 mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings
Ever a note of wail and woe,
Till the 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;
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-birds 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 eyes 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.-
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.
Fair lady with the bandaged eye!
I'll pardon all thy scurvy tricks;
So thou wilt cut me and deny
Alike thy kisses and thy kicks.
I'm quite contented as I am;
Have cash to keep my duns at bay, Can choose between beefsteaks and ham, And drink Madeira every day.
My station is the middle rank;
My fortune just a competence
Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank,
And twenty in the six-per-cents.
No amorous chains my heart enthrall;
I neither borrow, lend, nor sell;
Fearless I roam the City Hall,
And bite my thumbs at Sheriff Bell.
The horse that twice a year I ride,
At Mother Dawson's eats his fill;
My books at Goodrich's abide,
My country-seat is Weehawk Hill;
My morning lounge is Eastburn's shop,
At Poppleton's I take my lunch;
Niblo prepares my mutton-chop,
And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch.
When merry, I the hours amuse
By squibbling Bucktails, Bucks and Balls;
And when I'm troubled with the blues,
Damn Clinton and abuse canals.
Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize,
At least preserve me from thy frown;
The man who don't attempt to rise
'Twere cruelty to tumble down.
When freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the Stars of glory there.
She mingled with it 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 into 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, stride 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 blending 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 thy 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-
There 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
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 that falls before us
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!
RAKE, SAMUEL ADAMS, an American journalist and historian; born at Boston, Mass., December 20, 1833. He is the author of various interesting works, among them Old Landmarks and Historic Fields of Middlesex (1874); Bunker Hill (1875), the story told in letters by British officers engaged in the battle; Old Landmarks and Historic Per
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