In Atlanta, Christmas, 1889
I.
O PROUD Gate City of the South, reborn,
Risen, a phœnix, from war’s fiery flood—
Why draped in gloom, this precious natal morn
Of Him crowned martyr for earth’s peace and good?
Set in the faces of your old and young,
Is seen the sorrow, ruthless Fate hath sprung!
II.
Your prince lies stark amid the stately towers,
Which he, strong leader in a radiant day,
Had helped to build, when Georgia’s unbound powers
Amazed the world and held majestic sway.
Grady is gone, like meteor flashing bright
Across the canopy of star-gemmed night!
III.
Lift him, with gentleness, and bear him hence!
Keep slow, deliberate pace unto the grave
Which long must be a spot where reverence,
Halting its footsteps, will his laurel wave!
Impulsive youth, in halls of fierce debate,
His counsels heed, his spirit emulate!
Henry Clay Lukens.
Jersey City Heights, N. J.