What the Heart of a Young Girl Said to the Dead Soldier.
Reading edition
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.