  On the death of Captain Bacon, Kentucky Volunteers, U. S. A., slain at Sacraments, Ky., December, 1861. Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky’s dead, Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head, Whose true blood streaming from his manly breast Shall dye with glories new thy marble crest, And caught by every sun upon the air Appeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer— Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land, From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand; Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice sped To fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead; Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part, Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart, And summon martial millions to the field A patriot host, the nation’s living shield. Promethean sun! whose early splendors kiss These pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis, Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just, Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust, Oft as thy torch illumes the morning gray Touch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fire And it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre, With an inspiring voice whose kindling strain Shall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain, And shed his base assassin’s blood as free As yonder waves which hasten to the sea. Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear, Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier. We knew that with or on thy stainless shield We would receive thee from the battle-field! True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s call Thou wert the first to arm thee—and to fall. The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groan Thrill the pained air with melancholy moan, While the slow river winding far below Whispers through all its waves the song of woe, And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hills With mournful cadence all the valley fills. |
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