Jackson is Dead!
Jackson Is Dead!
Jackson is dead! An I the tears of a nation
Rise with the prayers of the millions that pray.
Jackson is dead! And the sad revelation
Lifts the sweet incense from altars to-day.
Liberty bent o’er her champion sleeping,
And shrieked as the conqueror fled from the earth;
His country beside his still coffin is weeping—
Tear-drops of blood from the land of his birth.
Jackson is dead! Weep matron and maiden
For him who his life for your safety did spend;
Weep o’er the urn with his honored dust laden,
The hero, the husband, the father and friend.
Weep, for his arm was wielded to save you
From insult and outrage, from ruin and shame;
Weep, for his life he willingly gave you,
A stranger to fortune, a spurner of fame.
Jackson is dead! And the camp is in mourning,
Its veterans honored by many a scar;
And warriors who, life and suffering scorning,
Have breasted the angry tornado of war,
Bow down their heads when they hear his name spoken
And weep scalding tears for the hero they love,
And kneeling they pray that the spirit, now broken,
May kindle its flame from the hero’s above.
Jackson is dead! Bear softly his ashes,
And lay them to rest near Mount Vernon’s green vale,
He hears not the cannon, he heeds not their flashes,
For Washington greets him a happy “All Hail!”
Together they sleep, proud rivals in glory,
No longer they toil where the wild carnage raves,
But history gilds the bright laurel of story
To beam with new lustre above the twin graves.
Jackson is dead! Disturb not his slumber,
But smoothe the soft pillow that raises his head;
While living he spurned the foul foe without number,
Let not their pollution disturb him when dead!
Then, soldiers, come swear, and the oath as you word it
Let Angels record with their pens from on high,
Swear by your swords, and God shall record it,
Swear to avenge him, or by him to die!
Jackson is dead! Place the sod on his bosom,
The wreath of his glory let history twine;
For his grave shall be sought by the pilgrims of freedom,
The Mecca of nations, his proud country’s shrine.
Then, youth, maid, and matron, and grandsires hoary,
Kneel by his grave for ’tis blessed and free;
Great in his goodness, and good in his glory,
The spot where he sleeps must be sacred to thee.
Jackson is dead! And the Angels in Heaven
Gather to welcome his soul from the sod,
And strewing his path with celestial flowers,
They lead him with songs to the presence of God;
And, blushing, he takes the bright crown with the greeting
He hears in the voice of Jehovah alone—
Then Heaven applauds, and the Angels repeating
The sentence eternal, “Good Servant, well done!”