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!

J. R. RANDALL.

AFTER ALL.

THE

HE apples are ripe in the orchard,
The work of the reaper is done,
And the golden woodlands redden
In the blood of the dying sun.

At the cottage door the grandsire
Sits, pale, in his easy-chair,
While a gentle wind of twilight
Plays with his silver hair.

A woman is kneeling beside him;
A fair young head is prest,
In the first wild passion of sorrow,
Against his aged breast.

And far from over the distance
The faltering echoes come,
Of the flying blast of trumpet,
And the rattling roll of drum.

And the grandsire speaks in a whisper:
"The end no man can see;

I From "Wanderers," copyright, 1892, by Macmillan and Co.

But we give him to his country,

And we give our prayers to Thee."

The violets star the meadows,
The rose-buds fringe the door,
And over the grassy orchard
The pink-white blossoms pour.

But the grandsire's chair is empty,
The cottage is dark and still,

There's a nameless grave in the battle-
field,

And a new one under the hill.

And a pallid, tearless woman

By the cold hearth sits alone, And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone.

WILLIAM WINTER.

SONG OF THE CAMP.

The Song of the Camp.

"GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belch'd its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:

"We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;

Forgot was Britain's glory:

Each heart recall'd a different name,
But all sang " Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, -
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learn'd
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rain'd on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."