POEMS OF JAMES RYDER RANDALL
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.
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