Gone are the gloried Dixons of yore,

Stout in Heart and form and Faith;

Their graves are intersected across the Earth,

The dust of their bones is scattered upon the Mountain Wind;

The Monuments which they chiseled out of Living Granite

Survive the barren waste of the Ages, alone,

And, as scattered as their Mortal Ashes, show

What Chivalry, what Honor, perished so long ago.

Yet fresh, are the pale Magnolias, there: The mighty Mississippi

Gushes like a fire, as of Olden Days;

Flowers blossom from the rubble of ruined Atlanta,

As they did in many an eon before.

Look! Nature withers, just as Noble, now,

As ever She did in Times of Old, the Human brow;

And emulates, still, the Embattled form,

That bravely fell, before Gettysburg's Cannon-Storm.

Child! From your first breaths you were taught to seek out,

Their Heaven in Dixieland's hot skies:

Her breezes have singed your Laborer's neck,

Her Sunshine has lit up your azure eyes;

Your ears have drunk the Forest whispers,

Heard by the Old American Poets, and your ready veins...

Swell with the blood of the Heroes,

That have slumbered long, in your Homeland's verdant sods.

Now, is your Nation, Truly, Free? Though late,

Your oldest shackle rended:

Shattered, as your Spirit felt beneath Tyranny's great weight,

That intolerable yoke.

And, Lee and Jackson, demerited, decayed, do see,

Her Youth renewed in Souls, such as yours:

A single shoot of that strong, old vine that made,

The Marauding Looter silent, as is death, within its well-armed shade.