I see the blush upon thy cheek, But thou wast ever bravely meek, But lo! there surges forth a shriek, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Thou wilt not crook to his control, Better the fire upon thee roll, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder-hum! Maryland! The Old Line's bugle, fife and drum, She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; She breaths! She burns! She 'll come ! She 'll come ! JAMES R. RANDALL. STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY COME, cheerily, men, pile on the rails, No matter if the canteen fails, We'll have a roaring night! We see him now his old slouched hat His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat, The blue-light Elder knows 'em well, Says he, "That's Banks - he 's fond of shell! we 'll give him Hell!” That's Stonewall Jackson's way! Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Hats off! Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Kneeling upon his native sod In forma pauperis to God "Stretch forth thine arm! Lay bare thy rod! He's in the saddle now -"Fall in! 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, The sun's bright lances rout the mists "Pope and his Yankees, whipped before! Ah, woman! wait, and watch, and yearn Ah, maiden! weep on, hope on, pray on! 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 "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; CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. OLD SOLDIERS TRUE OLD soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust, All patriots they beyond the farthest doubt; Ring it and sing it, we go hand in hand, And if Virginia's vales shall ring again Upflaring in us all, When kindred unto kindred, loudly crying, MAURICE THOMPSON (Lincoln's Grave). THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Given to redeem the human mind from error, The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd! Down the dark future, through long generations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The holy melodies of love arise. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. |