But thou, my country’s banner, Unstained by guilt or crime, Shalt wave o’er every tyrant-flag, Until the end of time: For Peace lies nestling in thy wings, And each emblazoned star Sheds down its sweetest influence To heal the wounds of war. Then wave thou on for ages, O’er mountain, lake and sea, For God has stamped upon thy folds His word--ETERNITY. Yet when the earth’s by thee forsaken, No mortal shall weep o’er thee, For the dread Archangel’s trump shall be The requiem of thy glory. Then, banner of my country, Shalt thou be upward borne, To gild again thy native skies, From which thou once wert torn; For thy earthly mission’s over, To the dust oppression’s hurled; Thou’st struck to none but a deathless power, ’Mid the wrecks of a falling world. Avena. STORY AND SENTIMENT, OR, CONVERSATIONS WITH A MAN OF TASTE AND IMAGINATION. No. 3. A NIGHT AT THE FARM HOUSE.[1] [1] This tale is in the hand writing of my friend. In one of my journeys through the western part of New Hampshire, I chanced to put up for the night at a small farm-house about five miles from the little village of W----, and meeting with a somewhat curious adventure there, I have resolved to record it. My host was a little, fat faced, bustling, bandy-legged fellow, running here and there, studious for my comforts, my humble servant, &.c. &c.; and succeeding with his wife, a long, lank, sidling, vinegar-looking creature, he made out to obtain for me the only spare room in his house. Into this I was ushered with due importance, and having taken a survey of the apartment, its nice new bed, newly dusted candle-stand, oak bottomed chairs, and a high huge wardrobe, which from its antiquated appearance I judged to have been an heir-loom in the family for three centuries at least, I tossed my saddle-bags into one corner, kicked off my heavy boots into the other, and slipping my released feet into a pair of soft squirrel-skin slippers, returned again to the kitchen. There I found my host and his wife cosily seated over a sparkling fire, and from the abrupt breaking off of their conversation and half guilty countenances, I concluded they had been talking over the character of their new comer. I was never difficult to please, especially when I had fallen in with any of the peasantry, so to speak, of dear New England, and admitted to the calm content which reigns around their fire sides--so planting myself upon a settle, perhaps a dye-tub, a thing indispensible to a New England farm-house, I entered into conversation with them.