Till the tide block'd up and the swift stream brimm'd “Sell Paché—blind Paché? Now, mister! look here! 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 you and your tin!” JAMES R. RANDALL. MARYLAND.* THE despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Avenge the patriotic gore That fleck'd the streets of Baltimore, Maryland! My Maryland! Hark to thy wandering son's appeal, My mother State! to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! *See Note 27. Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Remember Carroll's sacred trust; Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Come! with thy panoplied array, With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, Come for thy shield is bright and strong, 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, Dear Mother! burst the tyrant's chain, Virginia should not call in vain, She meets her sisters on the plain : 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 Maryland! My Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Thou wilt not crook to his control, Better the fire upon thee roll, 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! KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. Born at Fryeburg, Maine, 1840— DRIVING HOME THE COWS. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass Under the willows, and over the hill, And something shadow'd the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily follow'd the foot-path damp, Across the clover and through the wheat, Thrice since then had the lanes been white, For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain, And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late: He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he open'd the gate, He saw them coming, one by one. Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; The empty sleeve of army blue; For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, The great tears sprung to their meeting eyes,- BY THE APPLE-TREE. Ir was not anger that changed him of late What does it mean when the bold eyes fall, What potent influence holds in thrall The eager heart and the burning lips? Ah me! to falter before a girl Whose shy lids never would let (Save for the lashes' wilful curl) The pansy-purple asleep below. you Nothing to frighten a man away— Only a ringlet's gold astray, And a mouth like a baby's, dewy red. know Ah, baby mouth! with your dimpled bloom, Could whisper a secret learn'd in the gloom, No need, for the secret at last is known |