On this green bank, by this soft stream,
    We set to-day a votive stone,
  That memory may their deed redeem,
    When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

  Spirit, that made those heroes dare
    To die, and leave their children free,
  Bid Time and Nature gently spare
    The shaft we raise to them and thee.

R.W.  EMERSON.

To America.

  What, cringe to Europe!  Band it all in one,
    Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age,
    Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage
  Its venal battles,—­and, by yon bright sun,
  Our God is false, and liberty undone,
    If slaves have power to win your heritage! 
    Look on your country, God’s appointed stage,
  Where man’s vast mind its boundless course shall run: 
  For that it was your stormy coast He spread—­
    A fear in winter; girded you about
  With granite hills, and made you strong and dread. 
    Let him who fears before the foemen shout,
  Or gives an inch before a vein has bled,
    Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!

G.H.  BOKER.

Old Ironsides.

  Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 
    Long has it waved on high,
  And many an eye has danced to see
    That banner in the sky;
  Beneath it rung the battle shout,
    And burst the cannon’s roar;—­
  The meteor of the ocean air
    Shall sweep the clouds no more.

  Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
    Where knelt the vanquished foe,
  When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
    And waves were white below,
  No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
    Or know the conquered knee;
  The harpies of the shore shall pluck
    The eagle of the sea!

  Oh, better that her shattered hulk
    Should sink beneath the wave! 
  Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
    And there should be her grave;

  Nail to the mast her holy flag,
    Set every threadbare sail,
  And give her to the god of storms,
    The lightning, and the gale!

O.W.  HOLMES.

To England.

I.

  Lear and Cordelia! ’twas an ancient tale
    Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame;
    The times have changed, the moral is the same. 
  So like an outcast, dowerless and pale,
  Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
    Spread her young banner, till its sway became
    A wonder to the nations.  Days of shame
  Are close upon thee; prophets raise their wail. 
  When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand
    Points his long spear across the narrow sea,—­
    “Lo! there is England!” when thy destiny
  Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand
  Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,—­
    God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!