Grave of a. Sydney Johnston
The Lone Star State secretes the clay
Of him who led on Shiloh’s field,
Where mourning wives will stop to pray,
And maids a weeping tribute yield.
In after time, when spleen and strife
Their madd’ning flame shall have expired,
The noble deeds that gemm’d this life
By Age and Youth will be admired.
As o’er the stream the boatmen rove
By Pittsburg Bend at early Spring,
They’ll show with moist’ning eye the grave
Where havoc spread her sable wing.
There, ’neath the budding foliage green,
Ere Night evolved her dewy breath,
While Vict’ry smiled upon the scene,
Our Chieftain met the blow of death.
Great men to come will bless the brave;
The soldier, bronzed in War’s career,
Shall weave a chaplet o’er his grave,
While Mem’ry drops the glist’ning tear.
Though envy wag her scorpion tongue,
The march of Time shall find his fame;
Where Bravery’s loved and Glory’s sung,
There children’s lips shall lisp his name.