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Jefferson Davis, 1808-1889
O more the white refulgent streets,
Never the dry hollows of the mind
Shall he in fine courtesy walk
Again, for death is not unkind.
A civil war cast on his fame,
The four years' odium of strife
Unbodies his dust; love cannot warm
His tall corpuscles to this life.
What did we gain? What did we lose?
He still; grief for the pious dead
Suspires from bosoms of kind souls
Lavender-wise, propped up in bed.
Our loss put six feet under ground
Is measured by the magnolia's root;
Our gain's the intellectual sound
Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.
In the back chambers of the State
(Just preterition for his crimes)
We curse him to our busy sky
Who's busy in a hell a hundred times
A day, though profitless his task,
Heedless what Belial may say --
He who wore out the perfect mask
Orestes fled in night and day.
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