[191]
Bow down, my soul, in grief
Before the God of Heaven;
We failed to grant our men relief
That rebels would have given!
And so those soldiers, good and true,
Died of neglect from ‘me and you.’
Too late we feel their woes,
Deluded now no more;
But withering blight shall rest on those
Who kept these men in store
As capital to aid their schemes
And realize ambition's dream.
Adown time's steepest path
Their names with scorn shall go,
The objects of a nation's wrath—
Those ministers of woe!
They killed the fifteen thousand men
Who perished in that prison pen!
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Richmond, VA. 1891.
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