CINCINNATUS HINER (“JOAQUIN ") MILLER,
"Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mustang Stretch'd neck and stretch'd nerve till the arid earth rang, And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck.
Twenty miles! .. thirty miles! . . . a dim distant speck
Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight,
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.
I stood in my stirrup and look'd to my right-
But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping
Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping
Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire.
To right and to left the black buffalo came,
A terrible surf on a red sea of flame
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher.
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,
The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud
And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud
Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,
While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his
Like black lances lifted and lifted again;
And I look'd but this once, for the fire lick'd through,
And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.
"I look'd to my left then-and nose, neck, and shoulder
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;
And up through the black blowing veil of her hair
Did beam full in mine her two marvellous eyes,
With a longing and love, yet with a look of despair
And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.
Her sinking steed falter'd, his eager ears fell
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell
Did subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead.
Then she saw sturdy Paché still lorded his head,
With a look of delight; for nor courage nor bribe,
Nor naught but my bride, could have brought him to me.
For he was her father's, and at South Santafee
Had once won a whole herd, sweeping every thing down
In a race where the world came to run for the crown.
And so when I won the true heart of my bride-
My neighbour's and deadliest enemy's child,
And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe
She brought me this steed to the border the night
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight
From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side;
And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride
The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue
I should surely escape without other ado
Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side,
And await her-and wait till the next hollow moon
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon
And swift she would join me, and all would be well
Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,
The last that I saw was a look of delight
That I should escape-a love—a desire-
Yet never a word, not one look of appeal,
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel
One instant for her in my terrible flight.
"Then the rushing of fire around me and under, And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder— Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reach'd around them, and wove her
Red hands in their hair, and kiss'd hot till they died—
Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,
As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone
And into the Brazos . . . I rode all alone-
All alone, save only a horse long-limb'd,
And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.
Then just as the terrible sea came in
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,
Till the tide block'd up and the swift stream brimm'd
In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.
You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,
For the ways they were rough and Camanches were near;
But you'd better pack up, sir! That tent is too small
For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,
Do
you book-men believe, got no tum-tum at all?
Sell Paché! You buy him! A bag full of gold!
You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!
Why, he bore me through fire, and is blind, and is old!
Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin
To them cities you tell of. Blast and your
THE despot's heel is on thy shore,
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That fleck'd the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland! My Maryland!
Hark to thy wandering son's appeal,
Maryland!
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,
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" is 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,
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!
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
Born at Fryeburg, Maine, 1840—
DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turn'd them into the river lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fasten'd the meadow bars again.
Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently follow'd their sober pace,
The
merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadow'd the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go:
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