TO E.S. SALOMONWho in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly againstdecorating the graves of Confederate dead.What! Salomon! such words from you,Who call yourself a soldier? Well,The Southern brother where he fellSlept all your base oration through.Alike to him—he cannot knowYour praise or blame: as little harmYour tongue can do him as your armA quarter-century ago.The brave respect the brave. The braveRespect the dead; butyou—you drawThat ancient blade, the ass's jaw,And shake it o'er a hero's grave.Are you not he who makes to-dayA merchandise of old renownWhich he persuades this easy townHe won in battle far away?Nay, those the fallen who revileHave ne'er before the living stoodAnd stoutly made their battle goodAnd greeted danger with a smile.What if the dead whom still you hateWere wrong? Are you so surely right?We know the issue of the fight—The sword is but an advocate.Men live and die, and other menArise with knowledges diverse:What seemed a blessing seems a curse,And Now is still at odds with Then.The years go on, the old comes backTo mock the new—beneath the sun.Isnothingnew; ideas runRecurrent in an endless track.What most we censure, men as wiseHave reverently practiced; norWill future wisdom fail to warOn principles we dearly prize.We do not know—we can but deem,And he is loyalest and bestWho takes the light full on his breastAnd follows it throughout the dream.The broken light, the shadows wide—Behold the battle-field displayed!God save the vanquished from the blade,The victor from the victor's pride!If, Salomon, the blessed dewThat falls upon the Blue and GrayIs powerless to wash awayThe sin of differing from you.Remember how the flood of yearsHas rolled across the erring slain;Remember, too, the cleansing rainOf widows' and of orphans' tears.The dead are dead—let that atone:And though with equal hand we strewThe blooms on saint and sinner too,Yet God will know to choose his own.The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,Who does not love the harmless deadWith all his heart and all his head—May God forgive him—Ishall not.When, Salomon, you come to quaffThe Darker Cup with meeker face,I, loving you at last, shall traceUpon your tomb this epitaph:"Draw near, ye generous and brave—Kneel round this monument and weep:It covers one who tried to keepA flower from a dead man's grave."
Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly againstdecorating the graves of Confederate dead.
What! Salomon! such words from you,Who call yourself a soldier? Well,The Southern brother where he fellSlept all your base oration through.Alike to him—he cannot knowYour praise or blame: as little harmYour tongue can do him as your armA quarter-century ago.The brave respect the brave. The braveRespect the dead; butyou—you drawThat ancient blade, the ass's jaw,And shake it o'er a hero's grave.Are you not he who makes to-dayA merchandise of old renownWhich he persuades this easy townHe won in battle far away?Nay, those the fallen who revileHave ne'er before the living stoodAnd stoutly made their battle goodAnd greeted danger with a smile.What if the dead whom still you hateWere wrong? Are you so surely right?We know the issue of the fight—The sword is but an advocate.Men live and die, and other menArise with knowledges diverse:What seemed a blessing seems a curse,And Now is still at odds with Then.The years go on, the old comes backTo mock the new—beneath the sun.Isnothingnew; ideas runRecurrent in an endless track.What most we censure, men as wiseHave reverently practiced; norWill future wisdom fail to warOn principles we dearly prize.We do not know—we can but deem,And he is loyalest and bestWho takes the light full on his breastAnd follows it throughout the dream.The broken light, the shadows wide—Behold the battle-field displayed!God save the vanquished from the blade,The victor from the victor's pride!If, Salomon, the blessed dewThat falls upon the Blue and GrayIs powerless to wash awayThe sin of differing from you.
Remember how the flood of yearsHas rolled across the erring slain;Remember, too, the cleansing rainOf widows' and of orphans' tears.The dead are dead—let that atone:And though with equal hand we strewThe blooms on saint and sinner too,Yet God will know to choose his own.The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,Who does not love the harmless deadWith all his heart and all his head—May God forgive him—Ishall not.When, Salomon, you come to quaffThe Darker Cup with meeker face,I, loving you at last, shall traceUpon your tomb this epitaph:"Draw near, ye generous and brave—Kneel round this monument and weep:It covers one who tried to keepA flower from a dead man's grave."