Jackson is gone – the true, the brave, the great!
The worshipped leader and the dreaded foe.
Gone! in the crowning glory of his fate,
Whilst the North
reeled from his resistless blow!
The noble, loyal heart shall beat no more.
The voice is still – the patriot soul has fled:
The unvanquished yields – the work of victory’s o’er!
Great man – heroic soul – as good as great!
Great because good! We, too, a name may boast
Deathless as thine, in fame thy worthy mate,
Who led, like thee, a not
was ours. What tho’ years speed away:
What tho’ this earth her noble dead divide:
Where time and space are not, nor fettering clay,
Such souls as theirs are surely side by side.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant – well;”
To east, to west, the approving verdict flies!
They hear it not – it cannot pierce the cell,
Thrown back from which the echo lingering dies.
No – does not die! Deep in our inmost souls,
With mournful cadence, still that echo swells;
And ever onward o’er the world it rolls,
And where it comes its thrilling story tells.
It tells of writhing forms by flames consumed, -
Of hosts that flee by night as spirits doomed,
That cross in blank despair the Stygian flood.
It tells of orphans’ cries and parents’ tears;
Of the cold hearth and sorrow-stricken wife;
Of memories that shall blacken coming years.
Oh, waste of hope! – Oh, waste of love and life!
To close up which she offered wealth in vain:
“More, more, give more – some nobler gift than this;”
leaped, and lo! it closed again!
Insatiate war, what numbers dost thou crave,
More foul and cruel than the unpitying wolf?
He now is thine, the pure, the true, the brave;
Oh, let this hero victim close the gulf!
Though it be vain, our thoughts will sadly tend
In wondering pity to this harrowing theme;
And still our prayers shall tearfully ascend:
God! Wake our brethren from the hideous dream!
- Liverpool Albion.