Hon. James B. Clay

Another pang for Southern hearts, That of late so oft have bled, Another name to add to the roll Of their mighty, patriot dead; A vacant place ’mid that phalanx proud. Of which each glorious name Is dear to a mighty nation’s heart, And dear to undying fame. The God-given gift of genius his, The patriot’s holy fire, For he we mourn was a worthy son Of a great and glorious sire: Ah! whate’er the changes time may bring, Shall never pass away From the people’s mind, in North or South, The deathless name of Clay. Yet an exile in a foreign land, His spirit passed from earth, Far from the old dear scenes of home, The loved land of his birth,— The land he had well and truly served, With heart, with sword, with pen, Since first he had joined the march of life, By the side of his fellow men. No Southern breezes, soft and sweet, Played around his dying bed, No Southern flowers in glowing bloom, Rich fragrance round him shed; The wintry light of a Northern sky, Earth robed in snowy vest, Were the scenes that met his yearning gaze As he passed into his rest But near him gathered devoted hearts, Wife, children, at his side, Wept bitter tears while hushed they looked, With fond, revering pride, On him who had ever been to them, Throughout his life’s career, A model of all that honor high, Or virtue holds most dear. And other mourners leaves he too, Who had learned to love him well. Though short the time since he had come, Within our midst to dwell: Friends who will keep his name fore’er ’Mid those they we set apart, To cherish deeply, and revere, Within their inmost heart.