Magnolia! “Pale city of the dead,” Adown thy gravelled walks I tread, Thy marble pillars looming high, Thy polished shafts around me lie. With soft, mild rays, the winter sun Thy tortuous pathways doth illume, The weeping-willow droops its head, To crown the “City of the Dead.”
On every side death’s tracks I see, His footsteps grim encompass me, The high-born here, the lowly there, The proud man there, the humble here. The rich has left his golden hoard, No more he sits at festive board, He could not bribe relentless death, With all his garnered stores of wealth.