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; And yet the life blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier’s 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 sabers rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight’s pall. There shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink 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 but falls before us, With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet, And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us! Fitz Greene Halleck wrote the last four lines of this poem. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. This beautiful song, which is set to the tune of “John Brown,” was written by Julia Ward Howe in 1861 just after her escape from a rebel raid when witnessing, with friends, a review of troops near Washington. In her dreams she was inspired by the beautiful thoughts and she immediately arose, and hastily noted them down. It is considered one of the grandest battle hymns of the Republic and has been a favorite with several of our presidents. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord! He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible, swift sword, His truth is marching on! I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps, They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps, His day is marching on! There read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel; “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal! Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel, Since God is marching on!” He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat! He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet, Our God is marching on.