Beneath Virginia's sunlit skies,
Where oaks their shadows throw
And ragged mountains darkly rise
To guard the vales below,

There is a sweet, sequestered spot,
Where peace and silence reign;
A fair God's acre is the lot,
Where sleep the Southern slain.

There is no sound, save low wind's sigh
Among the branches tall,
Or song of wild bird, poising high,
In plaintive lay or call.

A solemn soldier carved in bronze
Mounts guard above the graves;
Beneath, a tablet where one cons
The names of martyred braves.

Full many a name is graven there
Well-known through the land,
And some seem strange and some seem rare
That make this hero band.

But plain among them all is one
That mutely makes appeal;
No plea for fame, but duty done,
The simple words reveal.

They knew him not, who found him there
Upon the battlefield,
When that sad day had ended, where
He fought, but would not yield.

The only knew he wore the gray,
And loved and honored him;
And naught could any comrade say
But this: 'We called him 'Jim.''

And from his talk about the camp
They knew his home to be
Beyond the seashore marshes damp,
Far South in Biloxi.

And so engraven on the scroll
For all posterity,
With others on this honor roll
Is 'Jim of Biloxi.'