Nonfiction > E.C. Stedman & E.M. Hutchinson, eds. > A Library of American Literature > 1861–1889
Stedman and Hutchinson, comps.  A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes.  1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
My Maryland
By James Ryder Randall (1839–1908)
[Born in Baltimore, Md., 1839. Died in Augusta, Ga., 1908. Written at Poydras College, La., April, 1861.—From the Author’s MS. text. 1888.]

THE DESPOT’S heel is on thy shore,
His torch is at thy temple door,
Avenge the patriotic gore        5
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
          Maryland, my Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son’s appeal,
          Maryland!        10
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,        15
          Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
          Maryland!        20
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,        25
Come with thy panoplied array,
With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray,
With Watson’s blood at Monterey,        30
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
          Maryland, my Maryland!
Dear Mother, burst the tyrant’s chain,
Virginia should not call in vain,        35
She meets her sisters on the plain,—
“Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
          Maryland!        40
Arise in majesty again,
          Maryland, my Maryland!
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,        45
Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
          Maryland, my Maryland!        50
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,        55
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
          Maryland, my Maryland!
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
          Maryland!        60
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,        65
          Maryland, my Maryland!
I hear the distant thunder-hum,
The Old Line’s bugle, fife, and drum,
          Maryland!        70
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!

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