Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/45

 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!