And is the old flag flying still
    That o’er your fathers flew,
  With bands of white and rosy light,
    And field of starry blue? 
  —­Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft
    Have braved the roaring blast,
  And still shall fly when from the sky
    This black typhoon has past!

  Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! 
    May I thy peril share? 
  —­O landsman, these are fearful seas
    The brave alone may dare! 
  —­Nay, ruler of the rebel deep,
    What matters wind or wave? 
  The rocks that wreck your reeling deck
    Will leave me nought to save!

  O landsman, art thou false or true? 
    What sign hast thou to show? 
  —­The crimson stains from loyal veins
    That hold my heart-blood’s flow! 
  —­Enough! what more shall honor claim? 
    I know the sacred sign;
  Above thy head our flag shall spread,
    Our ocean path be thine!

  The bark sails on; the Pilgrim’s Cape
    Lies low along her lee,
  Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes
    To lock the shore and sea. 
  No treason here! it cost too dear
    To win this barren realm! 
  And true and free the hands must be
    That hold the whaler’s helm!

  Still on!  Manhattan’s narrowing bay
    No Rebel cruiser scars;
  Her waters feel no pirate’s keel
    That flaunts the fallen stars! 
  —­But watch the light on yonder height,—­
    Ay, pilot, have a care! 
  Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud
    The capes of Delaware!

  Say, pilot, what this fort may be,
    Whose sentinels look down
  From moated walls that show the sea
    Their deep embrasures’ frown? 
  The Rebel host claims all the coast,
    But these are friends, we know,
  Whose footprints spoil the “sacred soil,”
    And this is?—­Fort Monroe!

  The breakers roar,—­how bears the shore? 
    —­The traitorous wreckers’ hands
  Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays
    Along the Hatteras sands. 
  —­Ha! say not so!  I see its glow! 
    Again the shoals display
  The beacon light that shines by night,
    The Union Stars by day!

  The good ship flies to milder skies,
    The wave more gently flows,
  The softening breeze wafts o’er the seas
    The breath of Beaufort’s rose. 
  “What fold is this the sweet winds kiss,
    Fair-striped and many-starred,
  Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls,
    The twins of Beauregard?

  “What! heard you not Port Royal’s doom? 
    How the black war-ships came
  And turned the Beaufort roses’ bloom
    To redder wreaths of flame? 
  How from Rebellion’s broken reed
    We saw his emblem fall,
  As soon his cursed poison-weed
    Shall drop from Sumter’s wall?

  On! on!  Pulaski’s iron hail
    Falls harmless on Tybee! 
  Her topsails feel the freshening gale,
    She strikes the open sea;
  She rounds the point, she threads the keys
    That guard the Land of Flowers,
  And rides at last where firm and fast
    Her own Gibraltar towers!