Elegy

Jefferson Davis:

No more the white refulgent streets.

Never the dry hollows of the

Shall he in fine courtesy

Again, for death is not unkind.

A civil war cast on his fame,

The four years' odium of

Unbodies his dust; love cannot

His tall corpuscles to this life.

What did we gain?

What did we lose?

Be still; grief for the pious

Suspires from bosoms of kind

Lavender-wise, propped up in bed.

Our loss put six feet under

Is measured by the magnolia's root;

Our gain's the intellectual

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

Who's busy in a hell a hundred timesA day, though profitless his task,

Heedless what Belial may say-He who wore out the perfect

Orestes fled in night and day.