1. Mitchel.
by W. Francis Williams.
“Hung be the heavens with black.” His mighty life was burned awayBy Carolina's fiery sun;
The pestilence that walks by day
Smote him before his course seemed run.
The constellations of the sky,
The Pleiades, the Southern Cross,
Looked sadly down to see him die,
To see a nation weep his loss.
“Send him to us,” the stars might cry;
“You do not feel his worth below;
Your petty great men do not try
The measure of his mind to know.
“Send him to us-this is his place,
Not 'mid your puny jealousies;
You sacrificed him in your race
Of envies, strifes and policies.
“His eye could pierce our vast expanse,
His ear could hear our morning songs,
His mind, amid our mystic dance,
Could follow all our myriad throngs.
”Send him to us! no martyr's soul,
No hero slain in righteous wars,
No raptured saint could e'er control
A holier welcome from the stars. “
Take him, ye stars! take him on high,
To your vast realms of boundless space;
But once he turned from you to try
His name on martial scrolls to trace.
That once was when his country's call
Said danger to her flag was nigh,
And then that banner's stars dimmed all
The radiant lights which gemmed the sky.
Take him, loved orbs! His country's life,
Freedom for all — for these he wars;
For these he welcomed bloody strife,
And followed in the wake of Mars.
