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We looked again—another figure still
Gave hope, and nerved each individual will;
Erect he stood, as clothed with power,
Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour
With firm, majestic sway—of strength a tower-
In the land where we were dreaming.

As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god,
Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood,
Rome felt herself secure and free-

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Woe! woe is us! the startled mothers cried;
While we have slept, our noble sons have died.
Woe! woe is us! how strange and sad,
That all our glorious visions fled

Have left us nothing real but our dead
In the land where we were dreaming.

"And are they really dead, our martyred slain?"
No, dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again

From every plain, from every height

On which they seemed to die for right;
Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight

In the land where we were dreaming.


JAMES RYDER RANDALL was born in Baltimore, and his fame rests upon his stirring war-song, "Maryland, my Maryland," which has been called the "Marseillaise of the Confederacy." It was written in 1861 and set by Mrs.


Burton Harrison to the tune of the old college song riger Horatius," on the wings of which it quickly flew all over the South.

His profession is that of an editor, and his delicate health has compelled his residence in a warmer latitude than his native city, in Louisiana and Georgia.

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Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day,

Come with thy panoplied array,

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,

Virginia should not call in vain,


She meets her sisters on the plain,"Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain, That baffles minions back amain,


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

Walking with Liberty along,

And chant thy dauntless slogan-song.
Maryland, my Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek,

For thou wast ever bravely meek,

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

Maryland, my Maryiand!

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,
Than crucifixion of the soul,

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;

Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum,—

She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll Come!
Maryland, my Maryland!

Written 1861.


FATHER RYAN, "the poet-priest," was born in Norfolk, Virginia, but passed most of his life farther south. He lived in New Orleans, Knoxville, Augusta, and Mobile. His death occurred in Louisville, Kentucky. His patriotic poems are among the best known and most admired that the South has produced his religious poems evince a sad view of human life together with an exalted adoration of the Divine Will.



Life of Christ, [unfinished].


Some Aspects of Modern Civilization, [a lecture].

To our great regret, we have not been permitted by the publishers to copy any of Father Ryan's poems. Every one is familiar with his "Conquered Banner," and "Sword

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