O er the heart that s beating by me,
I would weave a spell divine;
Is there aught she could deny me,
Drinking in such strains as thine?
Listen! dearest, etc.
HENRY ROOTES JACKSON
[Henry Rootes Jackson was born of English parentage in Athens, Georgia, in 1820, and died in Savannah in 1898. After graduating from Yale he practiced law in Georgia. He saw service in both the Mexican War and the Civil War. In 1853 he accepted a diplomatic appointment to Austria; in 1885 he was honored with a similar appointment to Mexico. His contribution to Southern poetry is a single volume of poems.]
THE RED OLD HILLS OF GEORGIA
The red old hills of Georgia! So bald, and bare, and bleak Their memory fills my spirit With thoughts I cannot speak. They have no robe of verdure, Stript naked to the blast; And yet, of all the varied earth, I love them best at last. The red old hills of Georgia! My heart is on them now; Where, fed from golden streamlets, Oconee s waters flow! I love them with devotion, Though washed so bleak and bare; Oh! can my spirit e er forget The warm hearts dwelling there?
