merits of Mr. Randall's fine poem. From his editcrial desh in Augusta, Georgia, he has sent a corrected version of "My Maryland," with these interesting particulars of its history: "In 1860-61 he who pens these lines was, though very young, a professor at Poydras College, upon the Fausse Riviere of Louisiana. There, a stripling, just from college in Maryland, full of poetry and romance, he dreamed dreams, and was only awakened by the guns of Sumter. At an old wooden desk, in a second-story room of Poydras College, one sleepless April night in 1861, the poem of My Maryland' was written. And now the desk is ashes, and the building too!" The poem first appeared in the New Orleans Delta.] THE despot's heel is on thy shore, His torch is at thy temple door, Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to an exiled son's appeal, My Mother State, to thee I kneel, For life or death, for woe or weal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Come with thy panoplied array, With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Virginia should not call in vain, She meets her sisters on the plain, Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland! Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Come to thine own heroic throng 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, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder-hum, The "Old Line's" bugle, fife, and drum, She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; She breathes! She burns! She'll come ! She'll come! JAMES R. RANDALL. THE PROPHECY OF THE DEAD. Is the groaning earth stabbed to its core? Grown quick in those homes of the dead? Must they to our season be wed? We thought the volcano of War Would belch out its flames in the East; We said, "We have Liberty's smile : But the plague-spot was on us the while, And the serpent was warm in our breast: We can no more revile The ox is for sacrifice dressed. Do ye hear, O ye Dead, in your tombs- Is the noon rising up from the sea? Who whispered? Is life underneath For there steals to my ear such a breath "Ye must go down to death: Ye have drunk of the blood of the slave." We have sinned, we have sinned, O ye Dead! Our fields with the out-crying blood Of Abel, our brother, are fed: Must we therefore be drowned in the flood? Waits no Ararat's head? Is no ark guided there by our God? *Ye must go down to death: have ye heard The tale of the writings of yore How One in the sepulchre stirred, And cast off the grave-clothes he wore? Inheriting life evermore. "When the foes of the nation have pressed It shall rise and shall rule over all." AMANDA T. JONES. THE OATH OF FREEDOM. BORN free, thus we resolve to live: We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! Born free, thus we resolve to live: Then let the drums all roll! Born free, we thus resolve to live: As freemen live or die! Then let the drums all roll! Born free, thus we resolve to live: We will be free or die! Then let the drums all roll! |