Aye, toll! toll! toll!
Toll the funeral bell!
And let its mournful echoes roll
From sphere to sphere, from pole to pole,
O’er the flight of the greatest, kingliest soul
That ever in battle fell.
Yes, weep! weep! weep!
Weep for the hero fled!
For death, the greatest of soldiers, at last
Has over our leader his black pall cast,
And from us his noble form hath passed
To the home of the mighty dead.
Then toll! and weep! and mourn!
Mourn the fall of the brave!
For Jackson, whose deeds made the nation proud,
At whose very name the enemy cowed,
With the “crimson cross” for his martial shroud,
Now sleeps his long sleep in the grave.
His form has passed away;
His voice is silent and still;
No more at the head of “the old brigade,”
The daring men who were never dismayed,
Will he lead them to glory that never can fade—
Stonewall of the Iron Will!
He fell as a hero should fall;
’Mid the thunder of war he died.
While the rifle cracked and the cannon roared,
And the blood of the friend and foeman poured,
He dropped from his nerveless grasp the sword
That erst was the nation’s pride.
Virginia, his mother, is bowed;
Her tread is heavy and slow.
From all the South comes a wailing moan,
And mountains and valleys re-echo the groan,
For the gallant chief of her clans has flown,
And a nation is filled with woe.
Rest, warrior! rest!
Rest in thy laureled tomb!
Thy mem’ry shall live through all of earth’s years,
And thy name still excite the despot’s fears,
While o’er thee shall fall a nation’s tears;
Thy deeds shall not perish in gloom. |