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! 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! Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with Liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! For 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 breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come! Maryland, my Maryland! J.R. RANDALL. After All.[1] The apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun. At the cottage door the grandsire Sits, pale, in his easy-chair, While a gentle wind of twilight Plays with his silver hair. A woman is kneeling beside him; A fair young head is prest, In the first wild passion of sorrow, Against his aged breast. And far from over the distance The faltering echoes come, Of the flying blast of trumpet, And the rattling roll of drum. And the grandsire speaks in a whisper: "The end no man can see; But we give him to his country, And we give our prayers to Thee." * * * * * The violets star the meadows, The rose-buds fringe the door, And over the grassy orchard The pink-white blossoms pour. But the grandsire's chair is empty, The cottage is dark and still, There's a nameless grave in the battle-field, And a new one under the hill. And a pallid, tearless woman By the cold hearth sits alone, And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone. WILLIAM WINTER. [1] From "Wanderers," copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co. The Song of the Camp.