Is menac'd by divided counsels; when,

On troubl'd seas, the bark is tempest-tost
And fiery lightnings rend the mountain-oak-
We need thy vision's eye to read events,

Thy wisdom to interpret them, thy marvelous ken
To be our beacon in the storms of state,
Thy warning words to tell us of the night!
Of statesmen have we lost the seed? O, God,
In Heaven's mercy, give us more such men!

Yonder he sleeps, where gently falls the dew-
Maxwelton's braes no bonnier than his couch,
Of violets spread, by roses sentinel'd.

Like the renown'd Sir Walter of the North
Who pip'd the Border Lays, he lov'd his dog.
Not far remov'd is Rio's grave, whose bark
Was welcome music to th' old statesman's ear.
At Newstead Abbey, by Lord Byron rais'd,
We find a monument, with lines inscrib'd

To his best friend-whose friendship knew no change—
Only a dog, but worthy marble's tear!

So, too, for Rio was uprais'd a shaft.
But the green sod holds other honor'd dust
Our great Vice-President lies not here alone
Beside him now th' lamented *Linton sleeps―
His more than brother-both now one in death.
Here often, in these sylvan scenes, was seen
The matchless Mirabeau-his more than friend-
Though quondam rival in the legal lists-
Fidus Achates-loving and belov'd!

Both held sweet converse here, and now that both
Sleep well-unfetter'd by the flesh-these twain,

If spirits wander, can but meet again;

And, somewhere hovering 'mid these glorious glooms, Must weep the shade of the immortal Toombs!

* Judge Linton Stephens.

Beside th' Old Commoner's, on yonder rock,
Carve the Great Outlaw's name. On to the end,
Impenitent and unforgiven-he disdain'd

All overtures of mercy; first and last,
Refus'd to bend the knee; scorn'd to admit
That he was wrong, or that victorious Power
Could alter the eternal Cause of Right.
Cast in colossal molds, a prince of men,
He was the noblest outlaw of them all,-
Greater than Robin Hood or Roderick Dhu
Or the renowned Macgregor. He was, aye,
Our Knight of Ivanhoe! Though disinherited,-
He came of Cedric's line of Saxon blood,
Whose fountain-sources rippl'd back to thrones.
He look'd the lion, shaggy-hair'd and bold.
In person an Apollo; he possess'd

In intellect no rival for the palm.

He was our unmatch'd Mirabeau, who wak'd
The coming storm of conflict; he who lit
The fiery night of battle. When I think
Of Toombs, the mighty, I at once recall
Hercules severing the hydra's head-
Or Samson, with his corded thews of oak,
Lifting the gates of Gaza on his back-
Excelling all the Israelites in strength,

Till, with his arms around the pillars thrown,
He perish'd in the temple's marble ruins.
Toombs, in his civil rights, did not survive

The wreckage of the sixties. Ah, no more,

He storm'd in Federal halls. That voice which rose, Like the deep music of the cataract,

Or the majestic roll of ocean's roar,

Was silent in his country's great debates.
But, glorying in his outlawry, he bore

With pride unbent, the badge of banishment
And, like a king in exile, kingly still,

Died an unpardon'd rebel-his last words:
"There's nothing to erase!" In Georgia's heart,
Where nestling flash her holiest gems, he sleeps,
Enshrin'd forever in an ark of gold.

Tradition's trump will keep his fame alive
Around the firesides of the coming years;
And, in the glorious history of our state,
Time's darkest night can never dim the page
On which th' memorial Muse has writ a name
To light the world forever-Robert Toombs.

Carve, too, upon the mountain's rugged brow
The name of Yancey; for he lov'd the South,
Was jealous of her institutions,

Dream'd of an orbit, separate and apart
In which she might serenely journey on
Among the constellations-dream'd the dream,
Till from Fort Sumter came the opening boom
And, o'er the state-house in Montgomery, stood
A new star of the morning. Some believe
That, in the genius of impassion'd speech,
He was the peer of Henry, who awoke
An earlier Revolution. But he pass'd
Ere came the tragic news of Gettysburg,
While yet the tide of Southern hope beat high
And shouted still the watchman: "All is well!"
Carve Yancey's name, I say, on yonder rock,
And leave it there, in the white truce of God,
To the eternal keeping of the stars!