We weep with Atlanta! Her loss is the nation’s! With deep lamentations Our grief is revealed; For her hero so youthful, So radiant and truthful, Her loyal defender, Lies dead on the field. We weep with Atlanta! O sore her bereavement! For he whose achievement The continent thrilled, His last word has spoken; In silence unbroken. By Death’s cruel mandate, The proud pulse is stilled. We weep with Atlanta! For woe crowds upon her When the soldier of honor Death’s countersign gives. Keep the grasses above him, And let those who love him Proclaim beyond doubting That the hero still lives. JOSEPHINE POLLARD. NEW YORK CITY, _Dec. 27, 1889_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ HENRY W. GRADY. ------- TRUE-HEARTED friend of all true friendliness! Brother of all true brotherhoods!—Thy hand And its late pressure now we understand Most fully, as it falls thus gestureless, And Silence lulls thee into sweet excess Of sleep. Sleep thou content!—Thy loved Southland. Is swept with tears, as rain in sunshine; and Through all the frozen North our eyes confess Like sorrow—seeing still the princely sign Set on thy lifted brow, and the rapt light Of the dark, tender, melancholy eyes— Thrilled with the music of those lips of thine, And yet the fire thereof that lights the night, With the white splendor of thy prophecies. JAMES WHITCOMBE RILEY. In _New York Tribune_, December 23, 1889. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A REQUIEM. _IN MEMORY OF “HIM THAT’S AWA’”._ ------- BURY him in the sunshine, Bring forth the rarest flowers In love to rest above the breast Of this dead hope of ours! Let not the strife and pain of life One ray of joy dispel, And we’ll bury him in the sunshine, In the light he loved so well!