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Burton Harrison to the tune of the old college song

• Lauriger 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.


Fugitive Poems :
Maryland, My Maryland,
Sole Sentry,

Cameo Bracelet, and others.


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,
And be the battle-queen of yore,

Maryland, my Maryland !
Hark to an exiled son's appeal,

My Mother-State, to thee I kneel,

For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,

Thy beaming sword shall never rust,

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,

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,

Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,

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,

Maryland !
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,

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!
Written 1861.

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1839=1886, 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

of Lee"; the “Song of the Mystic" is one of his most beautiful productions.



WILLIAM GORDON McCABE was born near Richmond, and educated at the University of Virginia. He was a captain in the Confederate service; and since the war he has had at Petersburg one of the best schools preparatory to the University. He is a poet, and has also edited several Latin authors for school use.


Ballads of Battle and Bravery

Defence of Petersburg.


I picture her there in the quaint old room,

Where the fading fire-light starts and falls,
Alone in the twilight's tender gloom

With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls.

Alone, while those faces look silently down

From their antique frames in a grim repose-
Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown,

And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose,

There are gallants gay in crimson and gold,

There are smiling beauties with powdered hair,
But she sits there, fairer a thousand-fold,

Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair.
And the roseate shadows of fading light

Softly clear steal over the sweet young face,
Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night

With the guileless pride of a haughty race. * By permission of the author.

Her hands lie clasped in a listless way

On the old Romance-which she holds on her knee-
Of Tristram, the bravest of knights in the fray,

And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea.

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look

As she watches the dying embers fall-
Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book,

Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall.

What fancies I wonder are thronging her brain,

For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow!
Perhaps-ah! me, how foolish and vain !

But I'd give my life to believe it so !

Well, whether I ever march home again

To offer my love and a stainless name,
Or whether I die at the head of my men,-

I'll be true to the end all the same.
Petersburg Trenches, 1864.



SIDNEY LANIER was born in Macon, Georgia, descended from a line of artist ancestors, through whom he inherited great musical ability. He was educated at Oglethorpe College, being graduated in 1860. He and his brother Clifford entered the Confederate Army together in 1861 and served through the war; but the exposure and hardships and imprisonment developed consumption which finally caused his death.

After the war he lived for two years in Alabama as a clerk and a teacher ; but his health failed and he was forced

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