Carolina mourns to-day. For he, the gifted
Son of her adoption, is no more. The voice
That stirred the bosoms of her sons, and
Made her ramparts ring from mount to
Sea-board, is hushed in death. His
Noble form, and nobler mien that
Never faltered ’mid the cannon’s
Roar, lies motionless.
So Carolina weeps. ’Tis meet she should—
Her chieftain lieth low. In this
Grand, old City by the Sea, this Venice
Of the Southland. The home he loved
So well. When the grey morn breaks,
And when the twilight lingers, they
Chant in low, sweet music, evening
Vespers for his soul.
Then, Carolinians, build a monument for him;
But not on marble cold. Not on
Towering dome or polished shaft,
Should his memory be engraved. But
In the hearts of those he loved and
Served, should immortelles, perpetual, bloom;
And incense, fragrant, ever rise
To his memory.
Requiescat in Pace.