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!

Written 1861.

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.

~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.

WORKS.

Poems.
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.

~1841=----.~

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.

WORKS.

Ballads of Battle and Bravery.
Defence of Petersburg.

DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES.[38]

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 o