Our Confederate Dead
What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier
By a Lady of Augusta, Geo
Unknown to me, brave boy, but still I wreathe
For you the tenderest of wildwood flowers;
And o’er your tomb a virgin’s prayer I breathe,
To greet the pure moon and the April showers.
I only know, I only care to know,
You died for me—for me and country bled;
A thousand Springs and wild December snow
Will weep for one of all the SOUTHERN DEAD.
Perchance, some mother gazes up the skies,
Wailing, like Rachel, for her martyred brave—
Oh, for her darling sake, my dewy eyes
Moisten the turf above your lowly grave.
The cause is sacred, when our maidens stand
Linked with sad matrons and heroic sires,
Above the relics of a vanquished land
And light the torch of sanctifying fires.
Your bed of honor has a rosy cope
To shimmer back the tributary stars;
And every petal glistens with a hope
Where Love hath blossomed in the disk of Mars.
Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes
Bosomed amid the archangelic choir;
Not with the grumble of impetuous drums
Deepening the chorus of embattled ire.
Above you shall the oak and cedar fling
Their giant plumage and protecting shade;
For you the song-bird pause upon his wing
And warble requiems ever undismayed.
Farewell! And if your spirit wander near
To kiss this plant of unaspiring art—
Translate it, even in the heavenly sphere,
As the libretto of a maiden’s heart.