Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll's sacred trust; Remember Howard's warlike thrust,-- And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland! My Maryland! Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! Come! with thy panoplied array, Maryland! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood, at Monterey, With fearless Lowe, and dashing May, Maryland! My Maryland! Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come! to thine own heroic throng, That stalks with Liberty along, And give a new _Key_ to thy song, Maryland! My Maryland! Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain: "_Sic semper_," 'tis the proud refrain, That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise, in majesty again, Maryland! My Maryland! 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 blade, the shot, 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 breathes--she burns! she'll come! she'll come! Maryland! My Maryland! POINTE COUPEE, _April 26, 1861_. A CRY TO ARMS. BY HENRY TIMROD. Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side! Ho! dwellers in the vales! Ho! ye who by the chafing tide Have roughened in the gales! Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot, Lay by the bloodless spade; Let desk, and case, and counter rot, And burn your books of trade! The despot roves your fairest lands; And, till he flies or fears, Your fields must grow but armed hands, Your sheaves be sheaves of spears! Give up to mildew and to rust The useless tools of gain, And feed your country's sacred dust With floods of crimson rain! Come, with the weapons at your call-- With musket, pike, or knife: He wields the deadliest blade of all Who lightest holds his life. The arm that drives its unbought blows, With all a patriot's scorn, Might brain a tyrant with a rose, Or stab him with a thorn!