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There they lay him out in a proud old hall, With the floor's edge kissing- the sacred pall; And thousands came to the hallowed room, 'Till the day went down to the night of gloom, For his land did honor him.
And when to the bannered march's swell, They bore him out with a ling-ering knell, Sad tears flowed out from a thousand eyes, And a thousand voices were choked with sighs, And the sun in the West was dim. |
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THE COTTON-BURNER'S SONG.*
Lo ! when Mississippi rolls Ocean ward its stream,
Upward mounting, folds on folds Flaming- fire-tongues gleam;
'Tis the planter's grand oblation
On the altar of the nation; 'Tis a willing sacrifice— Let the g-olden incense rise— Pile the cotton to the skies!
Chorus.—Lo! the sacrificial flame
Gilds the starry dome of night! Nations ! read the mute acclaim— 'Tis for liberty we fight! Homes ! Religion ! Right!
* The Memphis Appeal published the following:—"On yesterday all the cotton in Memphis was burned. Probably not less than 300,000 bales have been burned in the last three days in "West Tennessee and North Mississippi." |
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