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e róbe of night,

A'zore (ā'zhūr), a., sky-blue. WEL'KIN, n., the vault of heaven.
BALD'RICK (a as in fall), n., a belt. BEL'LIED, pp., swollen out.
SYM'Bol, n., a sign ; an emblem. MEʼTE-OR, n., a luminous body pass-
GOR’GEOUS (gor'jus), a., splendid ing in the air.
REʻGAL, 1., belonging to a king. HAR'BIN-GER (-jer), n., a forerunner.
Pronounce ere (meaning before, sooner than) like air.


Unfurled her standard to the a air,
She tore the azure

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldrick 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 trumpings loud
And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven,-
Child of the Sunl to thee 't is 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 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.-



Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier 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,
Then 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’s 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!

J. R. DRAKE. (1795 ~ 184)


BRUISE, n., a hurt on the flesh. PALE-BOT'O-MIZE, V., to let blood with Lux, v. t., to put out of joint.

a lancet. Draugut (draft), n., the quantity FĂR’RI-ER, n., one who shoes or cures drunk at once.

horses. BRAY, v. t., to beat in a mortar. GE'NUS (je’nus), n., kind ; sort.

Pronounce none, nun. Do not say swaller for swallow.


Enter Hostess and LAM-PE'DO, followed by Bal-THAZ'AR unperceived.

The latter carries a drawn sword, and overhears what is said of him.

Hostess. Doctor Lampedo, you must keep this man, if you can so contrive it, another fortnight in my house. Come, you shall not be the loser. Your bill already must be almost as long as mine is. Another fortnight, doctor. Lampedo. It can not be. The man's as well as I

Have some mercy. He has been here almost three weeks already. His accident ought not to have detained him half a day.

Host. Well, then, a week - detain him a week.

Lam. You talk now like a reasonable hostess that sometimes has a reckoning with her conscience. We may keep him a week.

Host. He still believes he has an inward bruise.

Lam. I would he had ! Or that he had slipped his shoulder-blade, or broke a leg or two (not that I bear his person any malice), or luxed an arm, or even sprained his ankle.

Host. Ay, broken any thing except his neck.

Lam. However, for a week I'll manage him. He has the constitution of a horse — but I'll manage him. A farrier should prescribe for him — but I'll manage him.

Host. Do so, doctor. Custom is scarce; but the occupant of the best room must pay a big price.


Lam. Let me - let me see. To-morrow we phlebotomize again; the next day I make him swallow my new-invented pătent draught; then I have some pills prepared; on Thursday we throw in the bark; on Friday

Balthazar (coming forward). Well, sir, on Friday — what on Friday ? Come, proceed.

Lam. Discovered !
Host. Mercy, noble sir !
Lam. We crave your mercy.

Bal. On your knees! 'T is well. Pray, -- for your time is short.

Host. Nay, do not kill us.

Bal. You have been tried, condemned, and only wait for execution. Which shall I begin with?

Lam. The elder one, by all means.
Bal. Come, then, prepare !
Host. Have pity on my weakness.
Bal. Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross flesh

tell me, and in a breath how many poisons you have cooked up for me.

Host. None, as I hope for mercy.
Bal. Is not thy wine a poison ?

Host. No, indeed, sir. 'Tis not, I own, of the first quality, but

Bal. But what? Speak out.

Host. I always give short measure, sir, and ease my conscience that way.

Bal. Ease your conscience, indeed! I'll ease your conscience for you.

Host. Mercy, sir! The times are hard.
Bal. Rise, if you can, and hear me.
Host. Your commands, sir ?

Bal. If, in five minutes, all things are prepared for my departure, you may yet survive.

Host. It shall be done in less time.


Bal. Away! Be speedy. (The Hostess goes out.)
Lam. So ! now comes my turn. 'Tis all over with

There's dagger, rope, and ratsbane, in his looks!
Bal. And now, thou sketch and outline of a man!
thou thing that hast no shadow in the sun!—thou-
Lam. I do confess my leanness. I am spare,

and therefore spare me.

Bal. Why! wouldst thou have made me a thoroughfare for thy whole shop ?

Lam. Man, you know, must live.
Bal. Yes: he must die, too.
Lam. For the sake of my patients, good sir,

Bal. I'll send you to the major part of them. The window, sir, is open. Come, prepare !

Lam. Pray, consider; I may hurt some one in the street.

Bal. Why, then, I 'll rattle thee to pieces in a dicebox, or grind thee in a coffee-mill to powder; for thou must sup with Pluto! So, make ready; whilst I, with this good small-sword for a lancet, let thy starved spirit out (for blood thou hast none), and nail thee to the wall, where thou shalt look like a dried beetle, with a pin stuck through him.

Lam. Consider my poor wife.
Bal. Thy wife!
Lam. My wife, sir.
Bal. Hast thou dared think of matrimony, too?

Lam. I have a wife, and three angelic babes, who, by those looks, are well-nigh fatherless.

Bal. Well, well! your wife and children shall plead for you. Come, come; the pills ! where are the pills ? Produce them.

Lam. Here is the box.

Bal. Were it Pando'ra's, and each single pill had ten diseases in it, you should take them.

Lam. What, all ?

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