I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!

But thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!

But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!

Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!

Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,

Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder-hum!

Maryland!

The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum,
Maryland!

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb;
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum

She breaths! She burns! She 'll come ! She 'll come !
Maryland, my Maryland!

JAMES R. RANDALL.

STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY

COME, cheerily, men, pile on the rails,
And stir the camp-fires bright!

No matter if the canteen fails,

We'll have a roaring night!
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue-Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of Stonewall Jackson's way!

We see him now his old slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew,

His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat,
So firm, so bold, so true;

The blue-light Elder knows 'em well,

Says he, "That's Banks - he 's fond of shell!
Lord save his soul -

we 'll give him Hell!”

That's Stonewall Jackson's way!

Silence!

Ground arms! Kneel all! Hats off!
Old Stonewall's going to pray!

Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! 'T is his way!

Kneeling upon his native sod

In forma pauperis to God

"Stretch forth thine arm! Lay bare thy rod!
Amen!" That's Stonewall's way!

He's in the saddle now -"Fall in!
Steady, the whole brigade !

Hill's at the Ford, cut off! We'll win

His way out, ball or blade!

No matter if our shoes be worn,

No matter if our feet be torn,

Quick step! We'll with him before morn,
In Stonewall Jackson's way!"

The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
There's Longstreet struggling in the lists,
Hemmed by an ugly gorge;

"Pope and his Yankees, whipped before!
Bayonets and grape!" hear Stonewall roar;
Charge, Ashby! Pay off Stuart's score,
In Stonewall Jackson's way!"

Ah, woman! wait, and watch, and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow ! read with eyes that burn
That ring upon thy hand!

Ah, maiden! weep on, hope on, pray on!
Thy lot is not so all forlorn -

The foe had better ne'er been born

That gets in Stonewall's way!

J. W. PALMER.

CIVIL WAR

RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette, Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

'Ah, Captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead! There's music around when my barrel 's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud."
"O Captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette;
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my
heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
"But I snatched off the trinket this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket! — 't is she,

My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree; We must bury him here, by the light of the moon!

"But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue - weakness a sin;

There's lurking and loping around us to-night;
Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in !"

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

OLD SOLDIERS TRUE

OLD soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust,
Who fought, with conscience clear, on either side;
Who bearded Death and thought their cause was just;
Their stainless honor cannot be denied;

All patriots they beyond the farthest doubt;
Ring it and sing it up and down the land,
And let no voice dare answer it with sneers,
Or shut its meaning out;

Ring it and sing it, we go hand in hand,
Old infantry, old cavalry, old cannoneers.

And if Virginia's vales shall ring again
To battle yell of Mosby or Mahone,
If Wilder's wild brigade or Morgan's men
Once more wheel into line; or all alone
A Sheridan shall ride, a Cleburne fall,—
There will not be two flags above them flying,
But both in one, welded in that pure flame

Upflaring in us all,

When kindred unto kindred, loudly crying,
Rally and cheer in freedom's holy name!

MAURICE THOMPSON (Lincoln's Grave).

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD

THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the village with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song,
And loud amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war drums made of serpent's skin;

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts.

The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd!
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.