Has pierc'd our lines and flung his flaming steel
In the Commander's path. It must not be.
"Back to the rear! These Georgia boys of mine

"Will lead this charge!" "Aye, aye!" the answer comes In echoing shouts, and on they wildly rush,

With Gordon in the lead, fighting like fiends,

To rescue the imperil'd Lee. His life

Was the Confederacy's. For him to fall

Meant for our waning Cause the end. 'Twas death,
Alas, for many a beardless youth that day,
The flower of many a lion line was pluck'd
To wreathe the battle-lists; but not in vain,
For welcome music sooth'd each dying ear,
The Southern Cross upon the ramparts wav'd—
Victory's shout was heard and Lee was sav'd!

Carve on that rock the noble Bartow's name.
Tell how he quit Montgomery for the field
Of glorious strife, when Dixie's morning dews
Were sweet, and hastening to Savannah seiz'd-
The guns of Georgia, with the ringing shout:
"I go to illustrate the commonwealth
"On old Virginia's bleeding fields!" Tell how
That brave young martyr, at Manassas, fell,
In victory's crimson arms, one of the first
To lay his heart's red rubies on the shrine
Of the old mother-land. Upon that rock
Place Thomas R. R. Cobb-our soldier-saint-
That siren-bugler, whose melodious lips
Woo'd Georgia to secession, whose warm heart
Sang its expiring notes at Fredericksburg,
Ere Appomattox in the distance gloom'd

Or Dixie's star, on the horizon, wan'd

To wax no more. Around him carve the lists

Of his immortal Legion, there to hang

Till stars shall set. Carve on the mountain's stone

Colquitt's proud name. Place Lawton there,
With eagle eyes, to sweep the wide expanse,
And Henry R. Jackson, whose immortal muse
Sang of our Red Old Hills. Write Benning there,
The State's belov'd "Old Rock". Chisel a niche
For "Lee's Old War Horse", close to Lee himself.
Outranking Stonewall Jackson, Longstreet led
Th' invincible "First Corps"-led it on fields
Whose battle-thunders rock'd a continent-
Second Manassas, Chickamauga, Seven Pines!
Limping from wounds received in Mexico
Before the grim walls of Chapultepec-
Scarr'd in the tangles of the Wilderness—
He proved his mettle; and whene'er a height
Was to be storm'd, or a long march

Was to be made, through dark ravines,

O'er mountain ranges, that from some redoubt
The foe might be expell'd, the duty fell

To Longstreet's corps. Like Francis Marion's,
His very name struck terror to the foe
And chang'd to victory many a threaten'd rout.
Aye, Longstreet's iron bull-dogs sav'd the day
For Dixie's drooping colors more than once,
When, but for his arrival, all was lost.
'Twas he who signal'd Pickett to the charge
At Gettysburg-that charge which through all time
Will make the ages ring-and there he is,-
Silent but staunch, in that immortal group,
Surrounding Lee, at the last council-fires
Beside the Rappahannock. Chisel there
An Alexander-Longstreet's cannoneer-
Chief of th' artillery. There carve the name
Of Evans. Lift the brave Joe Johnston up,
Pois'd at an angle where he still can sight
The peaks of Kennesaw-a strategist
In arms, unequal'd since an ancient world

Beheld a Roman Fabius. Write "Polk",
Whose towering figure, like a hillside fir,
Fell at Pine Mountain. Nor forget to carve
Pat Cleburne's name. The star of Franklin's field,
He was our gallant "Stonewall of the West",
Nor was there e'er a purer heart of gold

Cast in the molds of Ireland. Carve there

A name, with myrtle wreath'd, in changeless rock,Joe Wheeler's. His, the genius to command, Whether in forum or in field. Hero

Of two great wars, his movements circumscrib'd Two hemispheres. Yok'd to the lightning's flashSwift as a meteor's devastating bolt

He dealt destruction to the enemy.

Throughout the whole blue ranks of Yankeedom
His very name became the synonym
Of terror. Mounted on his prancing steed,
Methinks I see him now across the years,

A fiery besom, aye, a thunderbolt,

Who, at San Juan, recall'd Confederate days,
Though white his scanty locks-who lov'd the flag,
But felt the fires burn fiercest in his veins
Whene'er the band played "Dixie". Chisel there
A great Kentuckian's name, whose sound still wakes
A thrill-Morgan, the raider! Ah, the State
That shrines his gallant dust at Lexington
Still owns the magic spell, cast by the sword
Which that brave warrior wielded. Chisel there
A great Virginian's name, whose mirthful songs
Still wake the listening forest and resound
Where rolls the Rappahannock. Far and near
Echo the bugles of Stuart, that young prince
Of our Confederate horsemen. Sabre drawn,
He dashes still to victory, and with locks,
Afloat like Rupert's, undefeated still,
Rides on the plains of glory. Nor forget