VI.

THE ROLL CALL OF THE STATES-(Continued)

G

EORGIA!* Land of the Cherokees, whose rose
Sweetens the upland airs. Home of the Creeks,
Whose valiant memories haunt the lowland plains
Georgia, the commonwealth of Nancy Hart,
Thanks to whose crooked eyes, that fairly blaz'd,
Like coals of fire from Dante's Hell, she brought
Six Tories to her feet, whose doom she seal'd!
Georgia, the youngest of the Old Thirteen
Who rallied round the staff of Washington-
The last to lower the colonial flag

Of Mother England-favorite of the Crown-
Nam'd for the House of Brunswick-first of all
To outlaw slavery on this continent!

Child of the knightly Oglethorpe's creative brain,
Belov'd of Whitefield, where the Wesleys blaz'd
A trail to Heaven, through the wilderness.
For debtors, an asylum in the West,
But not for slackers or for renegades.
Bloom-wreath'd Savannah! In her bosom sleep,
The fathers of the Colony. There rest
The bones of Tomo-chi-chi, 'neath a rock,
Rough-hewn and red, symbolic of himself,
Statesman and warrior of the forest-wilds.
There, nestling in her very heart, now lies
The great Nathanael Greene-upon her soil
The gallant Jasper fell, and for her sake
The brave Pulaski perish'd like a prince,—
Poland's resplendent pearl of chivalry!

* Georgia seceded from the Union January 19, 1861, and was the fifth State to join the Confederate Sisterhood.

'Twas Georgia's glorious Jackson, who call'd down
The fire of Heaven, like Prometheus,

To flame the records of the Yazoo Fraud.
Her Troup who brav'd the Federal Government,
Exclaiming: "State-Rights must be recogniz'd."
Her Crawford, prince of our Ambassadors

To whom the great Napoleon was mov'd

To bend the Crown of France. Her John Forsyth,
Who from King Ferdinand, of Spain, acquir'd
The Floridas. Her Berrien, who charm'd
The nation's Senate with an eloquence
Which caus'd him to be dubb'd our Cicero.

Her Crawford Long, who from the envious gods
Borrow'd their twilight sleep, and gave to men
The boon of anaesthesia-his to end

The age-long terror of the surgeon's knife,
To banish pain, and, on the sufferer's cheek,
Folded in dreams, to call the roses back.
True to her glorious past, Georgia it was
Who gave to the Confederacy that Seer,
Who read the future like an open book,
Stephens, the wise, its sole Vice-President-
Its great apologist, who later wrote

"The War Between the States". Joseph E. Brown,
Who seiz'd Pulaski's stronghold, to insure

Its coast defences. Benjamin H. Hill,

Who, in its august-Senate-hall, became

The breast-plate and the bugler of his chief.

Great Toombs, the Thunderer, on whose Jovine brow
Lower'd the darkening storm-clouds that foretold
Secession, and upon whose breast of flint,

Like some great sea-wall, broke the fiery waves.
Grady, the eloquent, whose voice was rais'd,

To still the storm of strife, and who came home

From Plymouth Rock-his brow with myrtle wreath'd— His mission ended-to lay down his life,

UNIV

OF

MICH

Still in its morning. Bishop George H. Pierce
To whom the mantle of Demosthenes

Descended from the Golden Age of Greece
Whose voice was Methodism's sweet eolian harp.
The two Le Contes, who, on our sunset coast
Loom like the great sequoias of the West.
These, too, are Georgia's. On her lofty bench,
Lumpkin, the great Chief Justice-trumpet-tongu❜d,
Nisbet, who penn'd her famous Ordinance,
Warner and Bleckley. On her battle-rolls,
Those two illustrious war-shod sons of Mars,
Gordon and Longstreet. What a splendid pair!
Both summon'd to the last camp-fire of Lee,
Beside the Rappahannock. Ambrose Wright,
Bartow and Benning-our belov'd "Old Rock"-
T. R. R. Cobb, a prince, whose life-blood ebb'd
At Fredericksburg, and Howell Cobb, who held
The Treasury portfolio, to relinquish it,
Ere Georgia cast the die.

Walker who fell

Upon Atlanta's sanguinary field,

P. M. B. Young, who wore at twenty-five,

A Major-General's stars-these, these are hers-
Hers, too, the death-bed and the tomb of Polk.
Lull'd by the Chattahoochee, Ticknor sleeps-
Couch'd on the sweet Savannah, slumbers Wilde,
Whose Irish harp awoke "The Summer Rose",
Randall, the singer of "My Maryland",
And Hayne, whose sky-born music of the soul,
Made him the poet-laureate of the South.
But neither on the hills of Habersham,
Nor down beside the ocean-tides of Glynn,
Nor mid the rustling "Corn", is found a grave
Upon whose storied stone is carv'd "Lanier".
He sleeps beside the blue Patapsco's waves,
On Baltimore's historic hills of rest.
Georgia's, a new Atlanta thron'd in state,