Mumford, the Martyr of New Orleans
Where murdered Mumford lies,
Bewailed in bitter sighs,
Low-bowed beneath the flag he loved,
Martyrs of Liberty,
Defenders of the Free!
Come, humbly nigh,
And learn to die!
Ah, Freedom, on that day,
Turned fearfully away,
While pitying angels lingered near,
To gaze upon the sod,
Red with a martyr’s blood;
And woman’s tear
Fell on his bier!
O God! that he should die
Beneath a Southern sky!
Upon a felon’s gallows swung,
Murdered by tyrant hand,—
While round a helpless band,
On Butler’s name
Poured scorn and shame.
But hark! loud pæans fly
From earth to vaulted sky,
He’s crowned at Freedom’s holy throne!
List! sweet-voiced Israfel1
Tolls far the martyr’s knell!
Shout, Southrons, high,
Our battle cry!
Come, all of Southern blood,
Come, kneel to Freedom’s God!
Here at her crimsoned altar swear!
Accursed for evermore
The flag that Mumford tore,
And o’er his grave
Our colors wave!
Notes
1 “The sweetest-voiced angel around the throne of God.”—Oriental Legend.