  ONE day in careless wise I said: “They were no heroes, they who bled To save the Nation and to free the slave; There is no honor now in being brave;” And thought not how my father hearing me— (He who had fought with Sherman to the sea, True as a knight of storied chivalry), Would feel the sting my words conveyed, as though I deemed the venture of his life should go A thing unworthy of remembrance. Then His look of pain (soft are the hearts of men!) Made me think deeply of the soldier’s part, (As when on Memory’s day the quick tears start To see the line each spring becoming less, The slowing step, heads’ winter snowiness!) And vowed I then that while my blood should run I should not be a son To speak a word not kindly of a soldier true; To utter naught but praise of all who dared to do, Whether in mail of gray or clad in honest blue! He who cares not That his sire fought; He who shall think not proudly of the days His father felt the blaze Of war’s red furnace flame against his cheek, Has but a coward’s heart, too poor and weak To throw the blood through faltering limb— Earth has no place for him! While there is hearth and home to save, ’Tis something to be brave— ’Tis something to have ventured near to Death, And felt his chilling breath! |
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