Polk Preston--gallant Buckner,
Hill and Hindman, strong in might,
Cleburne, flower of manly valor,
Hood, the Ajax of the fight;
Benning, bold and hardy warrior,
Fearless, resolute Kershaw;
Mingle battle-yell and death-bolt,
Volley fierce and wild hurrah!
At the volleys bleed their bodies,
At the fierce shout rise their souls,
While the fiery wave of vengeance
On their quailing column rolls;
And the parched throats of the stricken
Breathe for air the roaring flame,
Horrors of that hell foretasted,
Who shall ever dare to name!
Borne by' those who, stiff and mangled,
Paid, upon that bloody field,
Direful, cringing, awe-struck homage
To the sword our heroes yield;
And who felt, by fiery trial,
That the men who will be free.
Though in conflict baffled often,
Ever will unconquered be!
Learned, though long unchecked they spoil us,
Dealing desolation round,
Marking, with the tracks of ruin,
Many a rood of Southern ground;
Yet, whatever course they follow,
Somewhere in their pathway flows,
Dark and deep, a Chickamauga,
Stream of death to vandal foes!
They have found it darkly flowing
By Manassas' famous plain,
And by rushing Shenandoah
Met the tide of woe again;
Chickahominy, immortal,
By the long, ensanguined fight,
Rappahannock, glorious river,
Twice renowned for matchless fight.
Heed the story, dastard spoilers,
Mark the tale these waters tell,
Ponder well your fearful lesson,
And the doom that there befell;
Learn to shun the Southern vengeance,
Sworn upon the votive sword,
"Every stream a Chickamauga
To the vile invading horde!"
In Memoriam
Of Our Right-Revered Father in God, Leonidas Polk, Lieutenant-General Confederate States Army.
Peace, troubled soul! The strife is done,
This life's fierce conflicts and its woes are ended:
There is no more--eternity begun,
Faith merged in sight--hope with fruition blended.
Peace, troubled soul!
The Warrior rests upon his bier,
Within his coffin calmly sleeping.
His requiem the cannon peals,
And heroes of a hundred fields
Their last sad watch are round him keeping.
Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale
Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling;
Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale,
Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling.
Joy, sainted soul!
Back to her altar which he served,
The Holy Church her child is bringing.
The organ's wail then dies away,
And kneeling priests around him pray,
As De Profundis they are singing.