Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/158

 No More! O terrible, wild word! the days
 * That have been shudder in the iron grave;

And lo, I totter on, in blind amaze,
 * ’Mid the black gulches of th’ o’erwhelming wave:

No star-bright seas, no Pharos-litten shore,
 * While the hoarse Raven croaks, “No More! No More!”

And still I weep not, it may be, alas!
 * That I am hardened into more than stone—

Ah, happy they whose hearts like brittle glass,
 * Break ere the worst of bitterness is known.

The cold remain, the gentle pass away,
 * In their white innocence—how happy they!

The drums are clattering in the crowded streets,
 * The fife and bugle warlike concords blend,

The roar of cannon to my soul repeats:
 * Peace, weary one, thy pilgrimage can end—

There’s rest for thee upon the battle field,
 * With Triumph towering in thy shattered shields!