Maryland, My Maryland, and other poems

Front matter

(At Twenty-Two) When Maryland, My Maryland, was written

MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND

AND OTHER POEMS

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

These poems have been collected and are published at the request of the many friends of James Ryder Randall, who died on the 15th day of January, 1908, in Augusta, Ga.

Mr. Randall was born in Maryland, and, although circumstances compelled him to live for many years far away from his native State, he never lost his intense love for the place of his birth, and it was the hope of his life, in later years, to close his career in dear old Maryland.

When he was last in Baltimore, he was persuaded to surrender to friends the stray poems, which he had written, at various times, that they might be published in book form.

His great poem, which Oliver Wendell Holmes declared to be the greatest war song of any nation, “Maryland, My Maryland,” constitutes the main feature of this publication. The circumstances under which it was penned are thus described by himself:

“In April, 1861, I read in the New Orleans Delta news of the attack on the Massachusetts troops as they passed through Baltimore.

“This account greatly excited me. I had long been absent from my native city, and the startling event there influenced my mind. That night I could not dismiss from my mind what I had read in the paper. About midnight I arose, lit a candle and went to my desk. Some powerful influence seemed to possess me, and almost involuntarily I proceeded to write the song of ‘My Maryland.’

“I remember that this idea seemed to take shape as music in my brain—some wild air that I can not now recall. The whole poem was dashed off rapidly when once begun. It was not composed in cold blood, but under what may be considered a conflagration of the senses, if not an inspiration of the intellect. No one was more surprised that I was as the widespread and instantaneous popularity I had been so strangely stimulated to write.”

Mr. Randall was, at the time, a Professor of English Literature and Classics in Poydras College at Pointe Coupee, Louisiana. While he was, thus, engaged, poetry was with him a passion and he had often, in the hours of leisure indulged in the ecstasy of writing exquisite poetry.

Published in the last days of April, 1861, his war song fired the Southern heart.

It displays the warmth of youth with the valor of the soldier, and pleads with his mother State to vindicate her peerless chivalry. After the war, his deep religious devotion turned his heart in kindness to those, who had been on the other side in the fratricidal strife, and he wrote the beautiful poem “At Arlington.” A devoted friend of Colonel Randall thus described the circumstances under which that poem was written. In the hearts of some of his triumphant foes the gall of bitterness still lingered, and “on one Decoration Day,” so the story goes, “the graves of Federal soldiers at Arlington Cemetery were heaped with flowers, and some pious women strewed a few garlands on the nearby graves of some Confederate dead. Whereupon, some Northern men, who saw the loving act, trampled under foot the garlands placed on the “Rebel Sod.””

But when the sun rose next morning the flowers were decking the Confederate graves, and this was how it happened:

Jehovah judged, abashing man: For in the vigils of the night, His mighty storm-avengers ran Together in one choral clan, Rebuking wrong, rewarding right; Plucking the wreaths from those who won, The tempest, heaped them dewy bright On Rebel graves at Arlington.

Other poems of rare beauty adorn this little book; but the grandest of all in spirituality of thought, in sublime religious faith, and in beseeching supplication is that of “Resurgam:”

Banished from thee! where shall I find For my poor soul A safe retreat from storms that blind Or seas that roll? Come to me, Christ, ere I forlorn, Sing ’neath the wave, And on this blessed Easter morn A lost one, save!

This collection of poems is, now, sent forth in the hope of the author’s friends, that it may receive a large share of favor from the public for the benefit of the family of the deceased author and poet, James Ryder Randall.

Baltimore, February 7, 1908.

Maryland, My Maryland

Oliver Wendell Holmes once said of Maryland, My Marland: “My only regret is that I could not do for Massachusetts what Randall did for Maryland”

MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND

The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His touch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland! My Maryland!

Hark to a wand'ring son's appeal, Maryland! 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, 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 gives 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!" 'tis the proud refrain That baffles minions back 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 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!

Pelham

PELHAM

Just as the Spring came laughing through the strife, With all its gorgeous cheer; In the bright April of historic life, Fell the great cannoneer.

A wondrous lulling of a hero's breath, His bleeding country weeps; Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, Our young Marcellus sleeps.

Nobler and grander than the Child of Rome, Curbing his chariot steeds; The knightly scion of a Southern home, Dazzled the land with deeds.

Gentlest and bravest in the battle's brunt, The Champion of the Truth He won banner in the very front Of our immortal youth.

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, The fiery pang of shells— And there's a wail of immemorial woe In Alabama dells.

The pennon droops that led the sacred band Along the crimson field; The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand Over the spotless shield.

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face, While 'round the lips and eyes, Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace Of a divine surprise.

O Mother of a blessed soul on high! Thy tears may soon be shed— Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, Among the Southern Dead.

How must he smile on this dull world beneath, Favored with swift renown; He with the martyr's amaranthine wreath Twining the victor's crown!

There's Life in the Old Land Yet

THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET

By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash The Tyrant’s war shout comes, Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash And the growl of his sullen drums; We hear it—we heed it, with vengeful thrills, And we shall not forgive or forget— There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills, There’s Life in the Old Land yet!

Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead, We are crushed—we are scourged—we are scarred— We crouch—’tis to welcome the triumph-tread Of the peerless Beauregard. Then woe to your vile, polluting horde When the Southern braves are met— There’s faith in the victor’s stainless sword— There’s Life in the Old Land yet!

Bigots! ye quell not the valiant mind With the clank of an iron chain; The Spirit of Freedom sings in the wind O’er Merryman, Thomas, and Kane! And we—though we smite not—are not thralls, We are piling a gory debt; While down by McHenry’s dungeon walls There’s Life in the Old Land yet!

Our women have hung their harps away, And they scowl on your brutal bands, While the nimble poniard dares the day In their dear, defiant hands! They will strip their tresses to string our bows Ere the Northern sun is set— There’s faith in their unrelenting woes, There’s Life in the Old Land yet!

There’s life, thought it throbbeth in silent veins, ’Tis vocal without noise— It gushed o’er Manassas’ solemn plains From the blood of the Maryland boys! That blood shall cry aloud, and rise With an everlasting threat— By the death of the brave, by the God in the skies, There’s Life in the Old Land yet!

John W. Morton

JOHN W. MORTON

Ringed with flame and sore beset, Where gunboat and rifle fire met; Where cannon blazed from water and land Upon the Donelson Southern band, A gallant lad of nineteen years, A stranger to tremor and to fears, Stood by a battery piece and shot The first shell in that crater hot. His captain, Porter, smitten down Where all the volleyed thunders frown, Shouted, when borne in pain away: “John, don’t give up that gun, I say!” “No! not while a man is left,” replied The lad, in the flush of martial pride; And he kept his word to the utter end, While a man could live in that river bend.

“No prison for me,” grim Forrest said, And thousands followed where he led. But other thousands because They bowed to Buckner’s word and laws. Whelmed by the girdling Northern men, They marched to the captive’s dismal den, And the lad who fired the first gun past Into that solitude sad and vast. A few months more, and the daring boy Breathed the air that the free enjoy. A few months more, and he gayly went Where dauntless Forrest pitched his tent. Saluting the hero, he quickly gave To the South’s own “bravest of the brave” A paper that said he was to be The Wizard’s Chief of Artillery. A derisive smile swept over the face Of the stern commander, in his place. “What!” he growled, “are you to wield Command of my guns in war’s fierce field? Nonsense, boy, go grow a beard!” And this was what the stripling heard.

But presently the Wizard’s brow Grew calm. “I’ll try you, anyhow,” He said, and from that setting sun Morton and Forrest were as one. Nigh four tremendous, bloody years, Full of combat, smiles, and tears; O’er miles of land in battles grand, Forrest and Morton went hand in hand. With sword and pistol the Wizard slew, While Morton’s guns mowed men in blue. If mortal man could ever have freed The South from the foeman’s grasp and greed, That man was Forrest, but we see It was not destined so to be.

II.

Long years have gone, the grass is spread Above the bivouacs of the dead. The mighty Wizard’s wand is still Like his heart; but from every Southern hill, And mount and stream and vale bedight, With sun and moon and star alight, He lives in glorious deeds, alway, Baffling the onset of decay.

The lad who made the cannon roar Survives on Life’s tumultuous shore. His locks are silvered, but his brain Burns with heroic throbs amain. Gentle and kind, but valiant yet, Forgiving, he cannot forget The Cause he fought for, with his mate Immortal, whatsoe’er its fate; While from his great dark eyes there gleams The orient of remembered dreams. And now the old bard’s final rhyme Invokes a blessing of Easter time, Upon his people and home and race, Like manna-dew of heavenly grace. With higher aims, in war’s surcease, Be thou allied with the Prince of Peace, And never, henceforth, forget to be “Soldier of Him who died for thee.”

On the Rampart

ON THE RAMPART

On Sumter’s rampart, that sweet eve, I heard the vesper bugle play In chorus with the ocean’s heave, All in the golden prime of May.

On either side, the level lands Swam seaward gray and serpentine; The billows burst in corsair bands Against their shield of rock and pine.

Aloof, beyond the sullen bar Crouching, the black armada rides— Afront the vulture ships of war, Brooded the giant Ironsides.

The fortress guns scowled from their lair Along the sentry’s bristling beat; While on the sultry wave, aglare, Back frowned the gaunt and baffled fleet.

Above her, in the glittering day, The white-winged banner’s battle stars. Crisping the bosom of the bay, Bold Moultrie stands with all her scars;

Amid the island, in repose, The casual breeze at last grew still; And, through the haze of twilight, rose The tower of Secessionville.

The patient moon clomb up the sky Forever on the sun god’s trail— The saddest, loveliest thing on high, And like Oenone’s passion pale.

The signal fires wink through the dark Aleft and right, as rays may reach Around the red and feverish arc Of muffled batteries on the beach.

A hallowed radiance, calm and grave, Gilded the city’s storied spires, Where watch the beautiful and brave, Where sleep the Carolinian sires.

On Sumter’s rampart, that sweet night, Leaning beside the shattered wall, Thy gentle face, so fair and bright, Kept me, dear love, within thy thrall.

I turned from wrecks of storm and strife To thee— within some distant home; I felt that all my fate and life Were thine, wherever I must roam.

A glory has come o’er my days In dreaming noblest dreams of thee; Beyond the rampart, how my gaze Went proudly o’er the Southern sea!

And dreams like mine can still defy Even the tempest of distrust; I know that they shall never die Because they are not of the dust.

Dear love! though dreams may wither here, They are upgathered from the sod, And we shall see them reappear In the long summer time of God!

Memorial Day

MEMORIAL DAY

Noblest of martyrs in a glorious fight! Ye died to save the cause of Truth and Right. And though your banner beams no more on high, Not vainly did it wave or did ye die! No blood for freedom shed is spent in vain; It is as fertile as the Summer rain; And the last tribute of heroic breath Is always conqueror over Wrong and Death. The grand procession of avenging years Has turned to triumph all our bitter tears; And the cause lost, by battle’s stern behest, Is won by Justice, and by Heaven blest. Dark grew the night above our sacred slain, Who sleeps upon the mountain and the plain; But darker still the black and blinding pall That whelmed the living in its lurid thrall. But taught by heroes, who had yielded life, We fainted not, nor faltered in the strife; With weapons bright, from peaceful Reason won, We cleaved the clouds and gained the golden sun.

And so today the marble shaft may soar In memory of those who are no more; The proudest boast of centuries shall be, That they who fell with Jackson rise with Lee!

The Battle Cry of the South

THE BATTLE CRY OF THE SOUTH

Arm yourselves and be valiant men, and see that we be in readiness against the morning, that ye may fight with these nations that are assembled against us, to destroy us and our sanctuary.

For it is better for us to die in battle than to behold the calamities of our people and our sanctuary.—Maccabees 1.

Brothers! the thunder-cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado’s rack, And the Vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr’s goal; Strike! with a ruthless hand— Strike! with the vengeance of the soul For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Arise! though the stars have a rugged glare, And the moon has a wrath-blurred crown— Brothers! a blessing is ambushed there In the cliffs of the Father’s frown; Arise! ye are worthy the wondrous light Which the Sun of Justice gives— In the caves and sepulchres of night Jehovah the Lord King lives! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Think of the dead by the Tennessee In their frozen shrouds of gore— Think of the mothers who shall see Those darling eyes no more! But better are they in a hero-grave Than the serfs of time and breath, For they are the Children of the Brave, And the Cherubim of Death! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Better the charnels of the West And a hecatomb of lives, Than the foul invader as a guest, ’Mid your sisters and your wives— But a spirit lurketh in every maid, Though, brothers, ye should quail, To sharpen a Judith’s lurid blade, And the livid spike of Jael! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Brothers! I see you tramping by, With the gladiator gaze, And your shout is the Macedonian cry Of old, heroic days! March on! with trumpet and with drum, With rifle, pike, and dart, And die—if even death must come— Upon your country’s heart. To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion’s Whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

Brothers! the thunder cloud is black, And the wail of the South wings forth; Will ye cringe to the hot tornado’s rack, And the Vampires of the North? Strike! ye can win a martyr’s goal, Strike! with a ruthless hand; Strike with the vengeance of the soul For your bright, beleaguered land! To arms! to arms! for the South needs help, And a craven is he who flees— For ye have the sword of the Lion’s whelp, And the God of the Maccabees!

The Lone Sentry

THE LONE SENTRY

Previous to the first battle of Manassas, when the troops under Stonewall Jackson had made a forced march, on halting at night they fell on the ground, exhausted and faint. The hour arrived for setting the watch for the officer of the day went to the General’s tent and said:

“General, the men are all wearied and there is not one but is asleep. Shall I wake them?”

“No,” said the noble Jackson. “Let them sleep, and I will watch the camp tonight.”

And all night long he rode around that lonely camp, the one lone sentinel for that brave, but weary, body of Virginia heroes. When glorious morning broke, the soldiers awoke fresh and ready for action, all unconscious of the vigil kept over their slumbers.

’Twas at the dying of the day, The darkness grew so still The drowsy pipe of evening birds Was hushed upon the hill. Athwart the shadows of the vale Slumbered the men of might, And one lone sentry paced his rounds To watch the camp that night.

A grave and solemn man was he, With deep and somber brow; The dreamful eyes seemed hoarding up Some unaccomplished vow. The wistful glance peered o’er the plain Beneath the starry light, And with the murmured name of God He watched the camp that night.

The future opened unto him Its grand and awful scroll— Manassas and the Valley march Came heaving o’er his soul, Richmond and Sharpsburg thundered by With that tremendous fight That gave him to the angel host Who watched the camp that night.

We mourn for him who died for us With one resistless moan, While up the Valley of the Lord He marches to the Throne! He kept the faith of men and saints Sublime and pure and bright; He sleeps—and all is well with him Who watched the camp that night.

Brothers! The midnight of our Cause Is shrouded in our fate— The demon Goths pollute our halls With fire and lust and hate! Be strong, be valiant, be assured— Strike home for Heaven and Right! The soul of Jackson stalks abroad And guards the camp tonight.

At Fort Pillow

AT FORT PILLOW

You shudder as you think upon The carnage of the grim report, The desolation when we won The inner trenches of the fort.

But there are deeds you may not know That scourge the pulses into strife; Dark memories of deathless woe Pointing the bayonet and knife.

The house is ashes where I dwelt Beyond the mighty inland sea, The tombstones shattered where I knelt By that old church upon the lee.

The prowling fiends who came with fire Camped on the consecrated sod, And trampled in the dust and mire The holy tenement of God!

The spot where darling mother sleeps, Beneath the glimpse of yon sad moon, Is crushed, with splintered marble heaps, To stall the horse of some dragoon.

And when I ponder that black day, It makes my frantic spirit wince; I marched—with Longstreet—far away, But have beheld the ravage since.

The tears are hot upon my face, When thinking what bleak fate befell The only sister of our race— A thing too horrible to tell.

They say that ere her senses fled, She rescued, of her brothers cried, Then feebly bowed her stricken head, Too good to live thus—so she died.

Two of those brothers heard no plea, With their proud hearts for ever still— Guy, shrouded by the Tennessee, And Bertram at the Malvern Hill.

But I have heard it everywhere, Vibrating like a mystic knell; ’Tis as perpetual as the air And solemn as a funeral bell.

By scorched lagoon and murky swamp, My wrath was never in the lurch; I’ve killed the picket in his camp, And many a pilot on his perch.

With steady rifle, sharpened brand, A week ago, upon my steed, With Forrest and his warrior band, I made the hell-hounds writhe and bleed.

You should have seen our leader go Upon the battle’s burning marge, Swooping, like falcon, on the foe, Heading the gray line’s iron charge.

All outcasts from our ruined marts, We heard th’ undying serpent hiss, And, in the desert of our hearts, The fatal spell of Nemesis.

The Southern yell rang loud and high, The moment that we thundered in, Smiting the demons hip and thigh, Cleaving them to the very chin.

My right arm, bared for fiercer play, The left one held the rein in slack; In all the fury of the fray, I sought the white man, not the black.

The dabbled clots of brain and gore Across the swirling sabers ran; To me each brutal visage bore The front of one accursed man.

Trobbing along the frenzied vein, My blood seemed kindled into song— The death-dirge of the sacred slain, The slogan of immortal wrong.

It glared athwart the dripping glaives— It blazed in each avenging eye— The thought of desecrated graves And some lone sister’s desperate cry!

Wilmington, April 25, 1864.

Our Confederate Dead

OUR CONFEDERATE DEAD

Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers; And o’er your tomb a virgin’s prayer I breathe To greet the pure moon and the April showers.

I only know, I only care to know, You died for me—for me and country bled; A thousand Springs and wild December snow Will weep for one of all the Southern Dead.

Perchance some mother gazes up the skies, Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave— Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.

The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires, Above the relics of a vanquished land, And light the torch of sanctifying fires.

Your bed of honor has a rosy cope, To shimmer back the tributary stars; And every petal glistens with a hope When Love has blossomed in the disk of Mars.

Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes Bosomed amid th’ archangelic choir, Not with the grumble of impetuous drum, Deep’ning the chorus of embattled ire.

Above you shall the oak and cedar fling Their giant plumage and protecting shade; For you the song-bird pause upon its wing And warble requiem ever undismayed.

Farewell! And, if your spirit wander near To kiss this plaint of unaspiring art— Translated, even in the heavenly sphere, As the libretto of a maiden’s heart.

Placide Bossier

PLACIDE BOSSIER

Ah, friend! in the tender College time No evil deed could stain thee, And now ’mid the combat’s iron chime, In purity they’ve slain thee. Sans peur et sans reproche to live, Sans peur the foe defying— Sans peur et sans reproche we give Thy epitaph when dying.

When the Southern bullet sang the knell Of the butchering invader, Then—then triumphantly he fell, Our spotless young Crusader; With the loud hurrah and the dauntless tramp Of the charging Creole yoemen, He fell where the Cherubim encamp, With his face to the flying foemen.

The blood moon guides its torch of night Through the smoke envolumed valleys, And the hillocks tell where the reddest fight Shook the quick, convulsive vollies; In the foremost phalanx he shall rest His head in the dust declining, The rifle shielding the soldier breast— The cross on the saint-heart shining!

Ashes

ASHES

The Spring will come with its ebullient blood, With flush of roses and imperial eyes; A vein of strength will throb along the flood— Banners of beauty toss the pillared wood When birds of music anthem to the skies.

And man prowls forth to mar thy gentle ways, With sword and shot and sacrilegious hand; Thy reign is fallen upon demon days, We peer at thee althrough a gory haze, Weeping and praying for our stricken land.

O Land! O Land! of benignant South! The Great High Priest approaches to thy brow, Anointing it with ashes; let thy mouth Rebel not, nor thy heart be filled with drouth— The hand will raise thee up that smites thee now.

Ash Wednesday, 1865.

The Unconquered Banner

THE UNCONQUERED BANNER

“A Lost Cause!” If lost, it was false; if true, it is not lost. If the Cause is lost, the Constitution is lost; the Union, defined by it is lost; the liberty of the States and the people, which they both at first and for half a century guarded, are lost.”—Henry A. Wise.

“Yet, Freedom yet, thy banner, torn though flying, Streams, like a thunderstorm, against the wind.”

—Byron.

The sad priest-singer, in his dread despair, When our war-trumpets ceased their charging blare, Wailed, in melodious numbers, o’er the South, Her righteous Cause crushed at the cannon-mouth. He bade us fold our banner and for aye, Because its night had come and not one ray Of hope remained to gild its glorious head, And that it typified the hopeless dead.

The peerless poet of that desperate age Wrote an immortal lyric, but the rage Of the aggressive section is no more, And thus our Southern flag, from shore to shore, Emerges like an eagle from its sleep To woo the sun, and, in its heart to keep The never-dying principle of Right, Surviving every fierce, unequal fight.

Men die, but principles can know no death— No last extinguishment of mortal breath. We fought for what our fathers held in trust; It did not fall forever in the dust. Our foemen sought to make us worse than slaves And envy all who sleep in hero-graves; They failed at last to do the deed they meant— They failed in trying God to circumvent.

And well for them they failed, for, in the end, Their fate and ours must ever interblend, If we have Cæsar, so must Cæsar be With them in fullest perpetuity. If they have empire and the sordid ban Of Shylock and the money-changing clan; The South is blameless; for she holds in fee The stainless swords of Washington and Lee.

There was scant glory in our overthrow— Not Valor did it, but a brutal blow. Five hundred thousand Hessians and a horde Of blacks and Tories broke the Southern Sword. Shut from the sea, o’erwhelmed upon the land, We fought the battle to a final stand. But the Great Cause, outlasting all debates, Lives in free union of unfettered States.

Now, let our Banner, symbol of the Right, Kiss every wind in its unconquered might; Let the glad spirit of the poet-priest Hover above this grand Reunion feast To watch our Banner, from the grave of strife Rise with the glory of a new-born life; Twined with the ancient flag, o’er land and main, And wed to deathless liberty again.

At Arlington

AT ARLINGTON

On the day that the graves of the Federal soldiers buried at Arlington were decorated, in 1869, a number of ladies entered the cemetery for the purpose of placing flowers on the graves of thirty Confederates. Their progress was stopped by bayonets, and they were not allowed to perform their mission of love. During the night a high wind arose, and in the morning all the floral offerings that had been placed the day before upon the federal graves were found piled upon the mounds under which reposed the thirty Confederates.