Was the Century’s feet,
Was willing to cease, but not to retreat.
And the New South was ginner,
The New Age was in,
The New Century spinner—
A New Cotton Gin.
Rear him—O sons of a generous sire—
Aloft on a monument, not on a pyre;
Base-stone of valor, column of youth,
Shaft-stone of chivalry, cap-stone of truth—