I.
O PROUD Gate City of the South, reborn,
Risen, a phœnix, from war’s fiery flood—
Why draped in gloom, this precious natal morn
Of Him crowned martyr for earth’s peace and good?
Set in the faces of your old and young,
Is seen the sorrow, ruthless Fate hath sprung!
II.
Your prince lies stark amid the stately towers,