A plea against the vindictive cry raised by civilians shortly after the surrender at Appomattox, April 9, 1865
The color-bearers facing death White in the whirling sulphurous wreath, Stand boldly out before the line; Right and left their glances go, Proud of each other, glorying in their show; Their battle-flags about them blow, And fold them as in flame divine: Such living robes are only seen Round martyrs burning on the green— And martyrs for the Wrong have been. Perish their Cause! but mark the men— Mark the planted statues, then Draw trigger on them if you can. The leader of a patriot-band Even so could view rebels who so could stand; And this when peril pressed him sore, Left aidless in the shivered front of war— Skulkers behind, defiant foes before, And fighting with a broken brand. The challenge in that courage rare— Courage defenseless, proudly bare— Never could tempt him; he could dare Strike up the leveled rifle there. Sunday at Shiloh, and the day When Stonewall charged—McClellan's crimson May, And Chickamauga's wave of death, And of the Wilderness the cypress wreath— All these have passed away. The life in the veins of Treason lags, Her daring color-bearers drop their flags, And yield. Now shall we fire? Can poor spite be? Shall nobleness in victory less aspire Than in reverse? Spare Spleen her ire, And think how Grant met Lee.
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