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And the long line comes gleaming on :
And cowering foes shall fall beneath
That lovely messenger of death!
Flag of the seas ! on ocean's wave,
Flag of the free heart's only home,
By angel hands to valor given !
And all thy hues were born in heaven;
Where breathes the foe that stands before us ?
And freedom's banner streaming o'er us !
After another song and chorus by the Quartette, Mr. HENRY MORFORD was introduced by the Grand Sachem, and read the following poem, written by him for the occasion, with his accustomed ease and clearness. During the reading, Mr. Morford was frequently interrupted by applause, and at its close was enthusiastically cheered:
DEMOCRACY AND THE NATION.
BY HENNY MORFORD, Esq.
Douglas Taylor, Old Tammany's printer in chief,
Say something-pitch ia-serve the right-flog the wrong-
II. Old Dan Webster, one time in the height of his fame, As a lawyer was pushing some boundary claim Between two who lacked temper to settle their lines, Away down in the North Carolinian pines. He got left by a steamboat, or wagon, or stage Overnight, in the midst of the pines—and a rage. He put up in a shanty of clapboards and logs, Where the people divided their beds with the hogs, Where twelve tow-headed children, each minus a shirt, Ran round and seemed happy midst bed-bugs and dirt ; And their ‘parients' two corn-crackers, gangling and long, From a bottle took sometbing that seemed to be strong. Well, Black Dan got his sleep, in the best way he might, And was glad to rouse up at the first peep of light, Taking breakfast of hoe-cakes and pork, and in haste To get off from that dirty and desolate waste. When breakfast was over, and ready the cart On which for 'some place he was making his start, He pulled out bis pocket-book (quite in his way You remember) and asked them how much was to pay. The male corn-cracker, standing meanwhile at the door, With his wife had been whispering ten minutes or more, And when Webster presented a Wilmington note Wiped his nose on the cuff his butterout coat, And replied in a manner most festive and gay, That old Dan ne'er forgot till his last dying day : “ See here, stranger !-old woman and I, about that
“ Just now have been baviog a bit of a cbat.
Supper, lodging and breakfast--now what do you say “ To our trading it out in the bandiest way? “ Can't you give the old woman and me, for that ere “ About six shillings worth of a speech, and quit square ?"
III. Old Dan used to tell off the story with zest, And made it foundation for many a jest, But he always declared that what bothered him worst And best furnished excuse when he inwardly cursedWas not making a speech to those slab-sided drones Two in number, and made up of gristles and bones But being cut down to so little a space :
Why, confound it !” said Dan, with his quizzical face
My chances just then were most dreadfully small !-“ I couldn't get started for shillings, at all !"
I am not a Dan Webster, as Douglas well knows,
IV. Were they jocular words, then, with which we begun, And sounds this like dealing with frolic and fun ? If they were, let the time furnish ready excuse, For looking down noses is never of use. Darker days than those looming above us, no man Has seen or has thought of since freedom began; And the last time St. Tammany's Sons meet the call To gather for council within the old hall, May long be remembered as darker by far Than any yet dimming the national star. Let us hope that the memory further will go And show joy coming next when the pulses are low, Keeping up the old maxim of ages agone :“ The darkest hour's that which just heralds the dawn."
Let us hope that if Tammany gathers to-day
They have saved--did I say? Yes, I need not recall
VII. If the nation is saved--and who doubts of the end When we know Freedom's God must be freedom's best friend? If the nation is saved, it must be by such arts As Old Tammany taught to ten millions of hearts ;Not the arts of chicanery-sectional spite,Theft or falsehood, usurping truth, reason and right,Not the arts which erush white men as slaves, to the dust, And in squalid black skins put a confident trust; Not the arts which so err on the opposite side And to State-Rights would sacrifice national pride ;None of these are the arts by democracy taught And free given to the winds of unchained human thought.
VIII. Other arts are democracy's—love of the land Spreading East, West, North, South, and on every hand; Holding all as a brotherhood equal in right, Trampling down every wrong done by arrogant might; Repairing injustice wherever displayed And relighting each star that might flicker and fade; Bending low to the flag, if in triumph or loss, With a reverence next to that paid to the cross ; Thinking every square foot of American ground The most sacred and holy in earth’s circling bound,And "American citizen", far or at home, A name privileged quite, like the boast of old Rome. Such arts towards the country-sueh arts towards the land, As within our own households draw love's closest band, Arts of love, truth, good feeling—these have welded the chain ; These must save us, if ever we flourish again.
'Tis a dark day—a sad one :—so patriots feel