The Newberry herald and news. (Newberry, S.C.) 1884-1903, 1894-03-14
The City of the Dead.

The City OF the Dead.
Water being only three feet below the
earth's surface on the coast of fLouislana,
the dead are buried in vaults. The
beauty Of this custom suggested the
following lines.
They were written by former New
berry lady now resident in New Or
leans, but whose parents reside in our
town. We will be glad to have other
poems from her pen.
On the bank of The Father Of Waters,
stood on calm autumn day,
And the sun glimmered bright on its
And the crescent stretching away.
Round about me there lay great city;
Wandering and winding and vast,
AS the shape of the river had whis-
pered
To the builders as it passed.
And this was the city of Orleans
A city Of story and song,
Where nation with nation has strug-
gled
For the right to conquer the wrong.
An illustrious city Of heroes,
A city most dear to our hearts,
Where monuments and scars mark the
daring
Of brave ones who did we'll thy
parts.
O! honored and beautiful city,
With their murmuring currents OF
life,
Where, oh, where are the many dead
thousands
Who served thee years past in their
strife?
Not buried in earth and in darkness,
With heavy sod over their breasts,
And the dark, chilling rains of the
winter
Thy last and thy only bequests.
But, behold! thou hast built them
city
Glittering, and fair and grand,
And erected them temples of marble
Statues carved by masters hand.
In quaint groves of whispering orange,
Thou hast laid them away to rest;
And upon the arched roofs Of their
houses,
The song birds have builded their
nests.
So, as soon as the summer approaches.
And the land is made warm and
fair,
Many cheerful, melodeous warblers
Make melody throughout the air.
There are monuments raised here to
heroes,
And statues and fond words of praise
And tears for the memory Of loved
ones
Who fell in those sad, far-of days.
For. at the great gate of the city,
Where ali those who enter must
see,
The figure of Joseph E. Johnston
Points boldly out over the lea.
At the foot of the mound of his statue,
In garments all tattered and old,
Stands a life-like appealing sad image
The corporal calling the roll.
All! but where are the hearkening voices
Who should answer the call made to
day?
They have given their lives for their
country
This green mound contains but their
clay.
And yonder is small Grecian temple,
Majestic, exquisitely fair,
Supported on seven smooth pillars,
Admitting the free light and air.
Where beautiful, crowned sculptured
seraph,
In garments of unsullied white,
Is writing the names of beloved ones
In the great book of life and light.
Oh! spirits of you who have left us,
Look down from your high homes
above,
And see how we cherish your memo
With honor, with tears, and with
love.
Side by side in this wonderful city
Lie the bodies of friends and foes,
And all nations and creeds are for
gotten
In the mutual sharing of woes.
The dark angel Death leaves sad
traces
That truly cannot be effaced
But our grief for the lost ones is less
.. enned
BY the beauty in which they are
placed.
And 80 fair and serene is this acre,
SO grand are these palaces rare,
SO eommingled is beauty with sad
ness,
So far is removed chilling fear.
And so pure is the glistening marble,
So sweet are the skies overhead,
That it seems to US not lone grave
yard,
But a City meet for the Dead.
- NCyy 0prEANS