Thomas Jefferson Flanagan in the Atlanta Independent, December 18, 1909:

You sleep amid the hills;
You[r] body is lying low;
But your voice among the rills,
Will be heard forever more.

Your tongue sleeps; ’tis sleeping
Here; is an idle quill.
To your race, the day is peeping;
They sing your praises still.

You kept the world a -thinking;
You kept your quill wet.
We are still a-drinking,
We sing your praises yet.

You arose, fought and fell;
You saw the fairies a-winging;
You almost conquered hell,
And set its jaws a-singing.

You sleep amid the hills;
Your body is lying low;
But your voice among the rills,
Will be heard forever more.