Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/Our Confederate Dead
OUR CONFEDERATE DEAD
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
When Love has blossomed in the disk of Mars.
Sleep! On your couch of glory slumber comes
Bosomed amid th’ archangelic choir,
Not with the grumble of impetuous drum,
Deep’ning 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 its wing
And warble requiem ever undismayed.
Farewell! And, if your spirit wander near
To kiss this plaint of unaspiring art—
Translated, even in the heavenly sphere,
As the libretto of a maiden’s heart.