Classic Poem

On, sons of mighty stature,
And souls that match the best;
When nations name their jewels
Let Alabama rest.

Gracie, of Alabama!
'Twas on that dreadful day
When howling hounds were fiercest,
With Petersburg at bay.

Gracie, of Alabama,
Walked down the lines with Lee,
Marking through mists of gunshot
The clouds of enemy.

Scanning the Anaconda
At every scale and joint;
And halting, glasses level
At gaze on “Dead Man's Point.”

Thrice, Alabama's warning
Fell on a heedless ear,
While the relentless lead-storm,
Converging, hurtled near.

Till straight before his Chieftain,
Without a sound or sign,
He stood, a shield the grandest,
Against the Union line!

And then the glass was lowered
And voice that faltered not
Said, in its measured cadence,
“Why, Gracie, you'll be shot!”

And Alabama answered:
“The South will pardon me
If the ball that goes through Gracie
Comes short of Robert Lee!”

Swept a swift flash of crimson
Athwart the Chieftain's cheek,
And the eyes whose glance was “knighthood”
Spake as no king could speak.

And side by side with Gracie
He turned from shot and flame;
Side by side with Gracie
Up the grand aisle of Fame.