The Harp in the Air; or a Night with Gerardi in Seelbach’s Roof-garden 107 Dedication Hymn 109 Lying in State at Princeton 110 In the Morning 113 POEMS +--------------+ | POEMS BY | | S. C. MERCER | +--------------+ [Illustration: THE TWO KENTUCKIANS. ABRAHAM LINCOLN--Fourteenth President of the United States; born in Hardin County, Ky., February 12, 1809; assassinated in Ford’s Theater, April 16, 1865. JEFFERSON DAVIS--First and last President of the Southern Confederacy; born in Christian County, Ky., June 3, 1808; died in New Orleans, December 6, 1889.] The sky of the Southland with grief is o’ercast; Bitter tears down the cheeks of the brave trickle fast; The moss-streamered oaks of Beauvoir bow their head-- Their Master is fallen, their Chieftain is dead. Wake, soldier, who liest outstretched on thy bier: Does the warwhoop of Black Hawk not startle thy ear? Seest thou not the long Mexican lancers’ array At dark Buena Vista rush fierce to the fray? Hapless Mexican Cavalry! great was your scath As you fearlessly charged down that Angel of Death. The manes of the chargers like meteors streamed, Like rainbows far-flashing the gay pennons gleamed; Like lightning from Heaven Davis brandished his sword And fierce was the volley his riflemen poured; They reel in their saddles, they topple and fall, The flag of the cavalcade turns to a pall, Its ghostly Commander is the skeleton Death-- The fair rose of Mexico shrinks in his breath. They halt--they retreat--in wild tumult they run, The eagle soars victor--Buena Vista is won. Hearken, O spangled Cavaliers, to that dread warning cry Which like the trump of Judgment is sounding from the sky-- “Remember cruel Alamo’s foul massacre and die!” Lo her avengers, Taylor, Davis, Hardin, McKee, and Clay! Abundant sacrifice went up in smoke of battle gray, So were thy Manes appeased, brave Crockett, on that day, Thy phantom sped from Alamo to cheer that bloody fray. Our troops on that field by their valor and scars Added stars to our flag’s constellation of stars, And Buena Vista’s immaculate name Like a beacon-fire burns in the temple of fame. Weep, daughters of Mexico, for lover and spouse, Hang crepe on the door of each desolate house, Long, long shall the maidens of Anahuac mourn For their fallen defenders who shall never return.