Star Spangled Banner. 43 Oh! say, can you see by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming; Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watch’d, were so gallantly streaming And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there, Oh! say, does the star-spangled banner still wave, O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mist of the deep, Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that, which the breeze o’er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceal’d, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; ’Tis the star-spangled banner, Oh! long may it wave, O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. And where is the band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war, and the battle’s confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has wash’d out their foul footstep’s pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave, O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. Oh! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved home and war’s desolation; Bless’d with victory and peace may the Heaven-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto--“In God is our trust!” And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave, O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. Song of the Sexton. 44 Oh, the sights that I see as I ply my lone trade, In the moldering dust that a cent’ry hath made, Where the coffin-worm doth creep. I began long ago, when my life was still green, And my mattock and spade have been active, I ween, To fashion the grave so deep. Ho! I laugh as I dig, for they all seek my aid, To provide them a home with my mattock and spade. The rich man hath pass’d me with towering head, But I sang o’er his grave when the scorner was dead, And laugh’d as I shovel’d the mold. The hungry and wretched ne’er enter’d his door, _His_ heart never bled for the wrongs of the poor, For the proud man well loved his gold. Ho! I laugh’d as I dug, for they wanted my aid, To provide him a home with my mattock and spade.