Brave Wilkinson commanding,

A major of brigade,

The shatter'd force to rally,

A final effort made.

He led it up our ramparts,

Small glory did he gain

Our captives some, while others fled,
And he himself was slain.

The stormers had retreated,

The bloody work was o'er;

The feet of the invaders

Were seen to leave our shore.

We rested on our rifles

And talk'd about the fight, When came a sudden murmur

Like fire from left to right; We turned and saw our chieftain,

And then, good friend of mine, You should have heard the cheering That rang along the line.

452078 A

For well our men remembered

How little when they came,

Had they but native courage,

And trust in Jackson's name; How through the day he labored, How kept the vigils still, Till discipline controlled us, A stronger power than will; And how he hurled us at them Within the evening hour,

That red night in December, And made us feel our power.

In answer to our shouting

Fire lit his eye of gray; Erect, but thin and pallid,

He passed upon his bay. Weak from the baffled fever,

And shrunken in each limb,

The swamps of Alabama

Had done their work on him.

But spite of that and lasting,
And hours of sleepless care,
The soul of Andrew Jackson
Shone forth in glory there.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

May 29, 1819.

THE AMERICAN FLAG.

The penultimate quatrain [enclosed in brackets] ended the poem as Drake wrote it, but Fitz Greene Halleck suggested the final four lines, and Drake accepted his friend's quatrain in place of his own.

THEN Freedom, from her mountain height,

W

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,

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 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-tramping 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 blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the braye! 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 glist'ning bayonet),
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy meteor-glories burn,
And, as his springing steps advance,

Catch war and vengeance from the glance!