The Rejected "National Hymns"

I: By H---y W. L-ngf----w

BACK in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch,

  Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,

Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens--

  Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,

  Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,

Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him

  Flutter'd and flam'd the original Star-Spangled Banner.

II: By The Hon. Ch-----s S-mn-r

POND'ROUS projectiles, hurl'd by heavy hands,

  Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,

Ere she a stadium had well advanced

  On the great path that to her greatness led;

Her temple's propylon was shattered;

  Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,

Her incubus was from her bosom hurl'd;

  And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,

She took the oil with which her hair was curl'd

To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.

III: By J-hn Gr--nl--f Wh-t--r

MY Native Land, thy Puritanic stock

Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,

And all thy sons unite in one grand wish--

To keep the virtues of Preserved Fish.

Preserved Fish, the Deacon stern and true,

Told our New England what her sons should do,

And if they swerve from loyalty and right,

Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

IV: By Dr. Ol-v-r W-nd-l H-lmes

A DIANOSIS of our hist'ry proves

Our native land a land its native loves;

Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,

Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores

Sink into nothingness beside its stores;

Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand--

The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land.

V: By R-lph W-ldo Em--s-n

SOURCE immaterial of material naught,

  Focus of light infinitesimal,

Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,

  Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars

  To the stars blent incipient on our flag,

The beam translucent, neutrifying death;

  And raise to immortality the rag.

VI: By W-ll--m C-ll-n B-y-nt

THE sun sinks softly to his ev'ning post,

  The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;

Yet not a star our Flag of Heav'n has lost,

  And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those

  New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;

But still our Country's nobler planet glows

  While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VII: By G--rge P. M-rr-s

IN the days that tried our fahers,

  Many years ago,

Our fair land achieved her freedom,

  Blood-bought, you know.

Shall we not defend her ever

  As we'd defend

That fair maiden, kind and tender,

  Calling us friend?

Yes! Let all the echoes answer,

  From hill and vale;

Yes! Let other nations, hearing,

  Joy in the tale.

Our Columbia is a lady,

  High-born and fair;

We have sworn allegiance to her--

  Touch her who dare.

VIII: By N. P. W-ll-s

ONE hue of our Flag is taken

  From the cheeks of my blushing Pet.

And its stars beat time and sparkle

  Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow

  That hides in her dreamy eyes,

It conquers all men, like her,

  And still for a Union flies.

IX: By Th-m-s B-il-y Ald--ch

THE little brown squirrel hops in the corn,

  The cricket quaintly sings,

The emerald pigeon nods his head,

  And the shad in the river springs,

The dainty sunflow'r hangs its head

  On the shore of the summer sea;

And better far that I were dead,

  If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,

  And the cricket that quaintly sings;

And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,

  And the shad that gayly springs.

I love the dainty sunflow'r, too,

  And Maud with her snowy breast;

I love them all;--but I love--I love--

  I love my country best.

X: By R. H. St-d--rd

BEHOLD the flag! Is it not a flag?

  Deny it, man, if you dare;

And midway spread, 'twixt earth and sky,

  It hangs like a written pray'r.

Would impious hand of foe disturb

  Its memories' holy spell,

And blight it with a dew of blood?

  Ha, tr-r-aitor! . . . . It is well.

R. H. Newell