Page:Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems - Randall - 1908.pdf/75

 And fall on the bauble-crest alway—
 * A cameo image keen and fine—

Glares thy impetuous knife, Corday,
 * And the Lara-locks are thine.

I thought of the wehr-wolves on our trail,
 * Their gaunt fangs sluiced with gouts of blood;

’Til the Past, in a dead, mesmeric veil,
 * Drooped with a wizard flood.

’Til the surly blaze, through the iron bars,
 * Shot to the hearth, with a pang and cry—

And a lank howl plunged from the Champ de Mars
 * To the Column of July.

’Til Corday sprang from the gem, I swear,
 * And the dove-eyed damsel I knew had flown—

For Eva was not on the ottoman there,
 * By Psyche carved in stone.

She grew like a Pythoness, flushed with fate,
 * With the incantation in her gaze—

A lip of scorn, an arm of hate,
 * And a dirge of the Marseillaise!

Eva, the vision was not wild,
 * When wreaked on the tyrants of the land—

For you were transfigured to Nemesis, child,
 * With the dagger in your hand!