Classic Poem

Wake, States of the South! your redemption draws near,
No longer repose in the borders of gloom;
The strength of his chosen in love will appear,
And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb.

The billows that girt you — the wild waves that roar —
The zephyrs that play when the ocean-storms cease —
Shall bear the rich freight to your tempest-toss'd shore,
Shall waft the glad tidings of freedom and peace.

On regions that sit in the darkness of night,
The lands of despair, to oppression a prey,
The morning will open with healing and light,
The glad star of Bethle'em will brighten to day.