Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/150

 O, wildwood Spartan of thy time!
 * O more than Roman in thy crime,

Love for thine own beloved clime.
 * Dear God! what segment of the earth

Can match the region of our birth!
 * Though ice-beleaguredice-beleaguered [sic], rill on rill,

Though scorched to deserts, hill on hill—
 * It is our native country still.

Our native country, what a sound
 * To make heart, brain, and blood rebound!

Our native country! bannered far
 * On eagle wings, with cross and star;

Diviner than the hymns of glee
 * That flood Astarte-eyed Chaldee,

It frets the war flag on the deep,
 * It makes the bale-fire on the steep,

It stirs a thought that cannot sleep.

It arsenals the fleetest arm
 * With the keen weapons of alarm,

And sends them shimmering forth amain
 * To smite and smite and smite again.

It boomed a grand, cathedral bell
 * Along the crags to Bruce and Tell;

It rang like cymbals on the breeze
 * To Henry and Demosthenes;