Poems of American History - Unknown

Land of gold!—thy sisters greet thee, [346].
Land of the Wilful Gospel, thou worst and thou best, [265].
Lay down the axe; fling by the spade, [410].
Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defy, [341].
Light up thy homes, Columbia, [371].
Lights out! And a prow turned towards the South, [624].
Like the tribes of Israel, [514].
Listen, my children, and you shall hear, [144].
Lo, Joseph dreams his dream again, [677].
Loaded with gallant soldiers, [461].
Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd, [8].
Long the tyrant of our coast, [290].
Look our ransomed shores around, [596].
Loud through the still November air, [570].

Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers, [44].
Major-General Scott, [426].
Make room, all ye kingdoms, in history renown'd, [178].
Make room on our banner bright, [358].
March! March! March! from sunrise till it's dark, [193].
Mater á Dios, preserve us, [24].
Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, [61].
Men of the North and West, [409].
Men said at vespers: "All is well," [568].
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, [384].
Mistress Penelope Penwick, she, [186].
More ill at ease was never man than Walbach, that Lord's day, [306].
Morgan Stanwood, patriot, [151].
Mute he sat in the saddle,—mute 'midst our full acclaim, [520].
My country, 'tis of thee, ii.
My dear brother Ned, [228].
My lords, with your leave, [182].

Neglected long had been my useless lyre, [117].
Neptune and Mars in Council sate, [110].
Never mind the day we left, or the way the women clung to us, [604].
New England's annoyances, you that would know them, [65].
Night's diadem around thy head, [594].
No beggar she in the mighty hall where her bay-crowned sisters wait, [655].
No Berserk thirst of blood had they, [153].
No lifeless thing of iron and stone, [593].
No more for them shall evening's rose unclose, [673].
No more words, [410].
No! never such a draught was poured, [136].
No song of a soldier riding down, [571].
No stately column marks the hallowed place, [135].
Not as when some great Captain falls, [540].
Not in the dire, ensanguined front of war, [609].
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, [486].
Not where the battle red, [417].
Not with slow, funereal sound, [603].
"Not yet, not yet! steady, steady," [162].
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight," [357].
Now from their slumber waking, [629].
Now you are one with us, you know our tears, [670].

O Boston wives and maids, draw near and see, [144].
O broad-breasted Queen among Nations, [570].
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, [537].
O God of Battles, who art still, [612].
O Land beloved, [660].
O Land, of every land the best, [548].
O little fleet! that on thy quest divine, [18].
O lonely bay of Trinity, [565].
O people-chosen! are ye not, [559].
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, [317].
O stealthily-creeping Merrimac, [627].
O the pride of Portsmouth water, [311].
O Thou, that sendest out the man, [262].
O Thou, whose glorious orbs on high, [653].
O'er Cambridge set the yeoman's mark, [146].
O'er Huron's wave the sun was low, [308].
O'er the high and o'er the lowly, [578].
O'er the rough main, with flowing sheet, [225].
O'er the warrior gauntlet grim, [542].
O'er the waste of waters cruising, [227].
O'er town and cottage, vale and height, [207].
Of all the rides since the birth of time, [283].
Of heroes and statesmen I'll just mention four, [224].
Of the onset, fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage, [102].
Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing, [106].
Oft shall the soldier think of thee, [355].
Oh, is not this a holy spot, [348].
Oh! lonely is our old green fort, [300].
Oh mother of a mighty race, [268].
Oh, Northern men—true hearts and bold, [427].
Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms, [83].
Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, [540].
Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white, [321].
Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore, [2].
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio, [354].
Old cradle of an infant world, [46].
Old Flood Ireson! all too long, [284].
Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too, [315].
On Calvert's plains new faction reigns, [142].
On Christmas-day in seventy-six, [188].
On December, the sixth, [188].
On every schoolhouse, ship, and staff, [611].
On primal rocks she wrote her name, [71].
On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn, [584].
Once came an exile, longing to be free, [335].
Once in a lifetime, we may see the veil, [589].
Once more the Flower of Essex is marching to the wars, [628].
One summer morning a daring band, [487].
Oppressed and few, but freemen yet, [156].
Our band is few, but true and tried, [248].
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain, [512].
Our fathers' God! from out whose hand, [573].
Our keels are furred with tropic weed that clogs the crawling tides, [666].
Our mother, the pride of us all, [174].
Our sorrow sends its shadow round the earth, [589].
Our trust is now in thee, [457].
Out and fight! The clouds are breaking, [409].
Out from the harbor of Amsterdam, [50].
Out of a Northern city's bay, [467].
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, [550].
Out of the focal and foremost fire, [460].
Out of the North the wild news came, [154].
Over his millions Death has lawful power, [376].
Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, [527].

Pains the sharp sentence the heart in whose wrath it was uttered, [539].
Palely intent, he urged his keel, [537].
Parading near Saint Peter's flood, [312].
Parent of all, omnipotent, [180].
"Past two o'clock and Cornwallis is taken," [257].
Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay, [313].
Poets may sing of their Helicon streams, [272].
"Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day, [67].
Prince William, of the Brunswick race, [241].

Quoth Satan to Arnold: "My worthy good fellow," [238].

Rapacious Spain, [24].
"Read out the names!" and Burke sat back, [611].
Rejoice, rejoice, brave patriots, rejoice, [28].
Rend America asunder, [374].
"Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot," [432].
Ring round her! children of her glorious skies, [516].
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly, [441].
Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo, [362].
Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover, [419].
Round Quebec's embattled walls, [171].
Rouse, Britons! at length, [205].
Rouse every generous, thoughtful mind, [139].
Rudely forced to drink tea, Massachusetts, in anger, [144].
Ruin and death held sway, [597].

Saddle! saddle! saddle, [579].
Said Burgoyne to his men, as they passed in review, [200].
Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez, [370].
Said the captain: "There was mire," [671].
Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks, [114].
Saint Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds, [480].
St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud, [9].
Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come, [357].
Santa Maria, well thou tremblest down the wave, [12].
Say, darkeys, hab you seen de massa, [522].
Seize, O seize the sounding lyre, [309].
Shall we send back the Johnnies their bunting, [654].
She has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride, [400].
She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tide, [527].
She is touching the cycle,—her tender tread, [603].
Shoe the steed with silver, [521].
Shoot down the rebels—men who dare, [643].
Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a—captive and wife was she, [340].
"Silent upon a peak in Darien," [651].
Since you all will have singing, and won't be said nay, [150].
Sing, O goddess, the wrath, the ontamable dander of Keitt, [391].
Single-handed, and surrounded by Lecompton's black brigade, [398].
Sir George Prevost, with all his host, [314].
Slowly the mists o'er the meadow were creeping, [147].
Smile, Massachusetts, smile, [172].
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn, [388].
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, [437].
So, they will have it, [408].
Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne, [89].
Some names there are of telling sound, [466].
"Somewhere in France," upon a brown hillside, [669].
Sons of New England, in the fray, [480].
Sons of valor, taste the glories, [176].
Souls of the patriot dead, [388].
Southrons, hear your country call you, [411].
Southward with fleet of ice, [34].
Spain drew us proudly from the womb of night, [640].
Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, [366].
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest," [6].
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, [183].
Squeak the fife, and beat the drum, [179].
"Stack Arms!" I've gladly heard the cry, [545].
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves, [161].
"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried, [464].
Still and dark along the sea, [509].
Still shall the tyrant scourge of Gaul, [114].
Streets of the roaring town, [643].
Such darkness as when Jesus died, [657].
Sullen and dark, in the September day, [586].
Summer of 'sixty-three, sir, and Conrad was gone away, [494].
Sun of the stately Day, [575].
Sunday in Old England, [526].
Sure never was picture drawn more to the life, [129].
Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang, [375].

"Talk of pluck!" pursued the Sailor, [516].
Talk of the Greeks at Thermopylæ, [672].
Tell the story to your sons, [319].
Thank God our liberating lance, [667].
That balmy eve, within a trellised bower, [43].
That seat of Science, Athens, [140].
That was a brave old epoch, [101].
The banner of Freedom high floated unfurled, [294].
The billowy headlands swiftly fly, [624].
The boarding nettings are triced for flight, [295].
The breaking waves dashed high, [57].
The breeze has swelled the whitening sail, [57].
The breezes went steadily thro' the tall pines, [185].
The captain of the Shannon came sailing up the bay, [300].
The "Catamount Tavern" is lively to-night, [194].
The Chesapeake so bold, [301].
The chill New England sunshine, [90].
The combat raged not long, but ours the day, [437].
The despot treads thy sacred sands, [515].
The despot's heel is on thy shore, [415].
The dog that is beat has a right to complain, [259].
The flags of war like storm-birds fly, [460].
The footsteps of a hundred years, [335].
The four-way winds of the world have blown, [625].
The great unequal conflict past, [263].
The guns are hushed. On every field once flowing, [562].
The heart leaps with the pride of their story, [634].
The home-bound ship stood out to sea, [36].
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, [449].
The Indian war was over, [123].
The knightliest of the knightly race, [417].
The land, that, from the rule of kings, [595].
The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub, [558].
The Lord above, in tender love, [264].
The loud drums are rolling, the mad trumpets blow, [614].
The morn was cloudy and dark and gray, [404].
The Mothers of our Forest-Land, [330].
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat, [368].
The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they, [66].
The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold, [97].
The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves, [449].
The stars of Night contain the glittering Day, [486].
The sun had set, [484].
The sun had sunk beneath the west, [310].
The sun strikes gold the dirty street, [674].
The sword was sheathed: in April's sun, [274].
The tent-lights glimmer on the land, [461].
The twenty-second of August, [219].
The 'Vention did in Boston meet, [271].
The Volunteers! the Volunteers, [374].
The war-drum is beating, prepare for the fight, [412].
The war-path is true and straight, [614].
The wind blows east,—the wind blows west, [91].
The winding way the serpent takes, [32].
The windows of Heaven were open wide, [600].
The winter night is cold and drear, [188].
The word of God to Leyden came, [56].
The word of the Lord by night, [478].
The years are but half a score, [585].
Then will a quiet gather round the door, [678].
There are twenty dead who're sleeping near the slopes of Bud Dajo, [645].
There is blood on thy desolate shore, [606].
"There on the left!" said the colonel; the battle had shuddered and faded away, [445].
There was no union in the land, [492].
These words the poet heard in Paradise, [591].
They come!—they come!—the heroes come, [262].
They fling their flags upon the morn, [632].
They have met at last—as storm-clouds, [423].
They held her South to Magellan's mouth, [637].
They knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to years, [667].
They say the Spanish ships are out, [621].
They slept on the field which their valor had won, [443].
They've turned at last! Good-by, King George, [183].
Think you the dead are lonely in that place, [674].
This is the place where André met his death, [239].
This was the man God gave us when the hour, [275].
This year, till late in April, the snow fell thick and light, [414].
Those were the conquered, still too proud to yield, [492].
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, [514].
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State, [660].
Thou wonder of the Atlantic shore, [338].
Though with the North we sympathize, [428].
Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle, [360].
Three days through sapphire seas we sailed, [530].
Three ships of war had Preble when he left the Naples shore, [282].
Through calm and storm the years have led, [574].
Through darkening pines the cavaliers marched on their sunset way, [19].
Through the clangor of the cannon, [302].
Through verdant banks where Thames's branches glide, [70].
Thunder our thanks to her—guns, hearts, and lips, [594].
Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood, [275].
Thus spake the Lord, [610].
Thy blue waves, Patapsco, flow'd soft and serene, [316].
Thy error, Frémont, simply was to act, [477].
Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise, [123].
Time was he sang the British Brute, [642].
'Tis done—the wondrous thoroughfare, [579].
'Tis God that girds our armor on, [264].
'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers, [163].
'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud, [152].
'Tis not the President alone, [649].
'Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars, [223].
'Tis of a little drummer, [451].
To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers, [112].
To deities of gauds and gold, [660].
To drive the kine one summer's morn, [233].
To drum-beat and heart-beat, [186].
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea, [640].
To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life, [355].
To the Cowpens riding proudly, boasting loudly, rebels scorning, [252].
To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, [77].
"To the winds give our banner," [99].
To western woods and lonely plains, [331].
Toll! Roland, toll, [408].
To-night we strive to read, as we may best, [71].
'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball, [382].
'Twas a wonderful brave fight, [407].
'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown, [88].
'Twas Friday morn: the train drew near, [414].
'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town, [213].
'Twas in the reign of George the Third, [135].
'Twas Juet spoke—the Half Moon's mate, [50].
'Twas June on the face of the earth, June with the rose's breath, [161].
'Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing, [157].
'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned, [349].
'Twas night upon the Darro, [15].
'Twas November the fourth, in the year of ninety-one, [332].
'Twas on a pleasant mountain, [251].
'Twas on board the sloop of war, Wasp, boys, [293].
'Twas on the glorious day, [299].
'Twas on the twelfth of April, [405].
'Twas out upon mid-ocean that the San Jacinto hailed, [429].
'Twas the dead of the night. By the pine-knot's red light, [148].
'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide, [230].
'Twas the proud Sir Peter Parker came sailing in from the sea, [181].
'Twas the very verge of May, [615].
'Twas the year of the famine in Plymouth of old, [62].
'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doom, [636].
Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seek, [622].
Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a blithe April day, [507].

Unconquer'd captive!—close thine eye, [523].
Under the great hill sloping bare, [80].
Under the walls of Monterey, [364].
Unhappy Boston! see thy sons deplore, [134].
Untrammelled Giant of the West, [609].
Up from the meadows rich with corn, [444].
Up from the South, at break of day, [521].
Up the hillside, down the glen, [358].
Up through a cloudy sky, the sun, [195].
Upon the barren sand, [39].