Heroes.

In rich Virginian woods,     The scarlet creeper reddens over graves,     Among the solemn trees enlooped with vines;     Heroic spirits haunt the solitudes, -     The noble souls of half a million braves,         Amid the murmurous pines.         Ah! who is left behind,     Earnest and eloquent, sincere and strong,     To consecrate their memories with words     Not all unmeet? with fitting dirge and song     To chant a requiem purer than the wind,         And sweeter than the birds?         Here, though all seems at peace,     The placid, measureless sky serenely fair,     The laughter of the breeze among the leaves,     The bars of sunlight slanting through the trees,     The reckless wild-flowers blooming everywhere,         The grasses' delicate sheaves, -         Nathless each breeze that blows,     Each tree that trembles to its leafy head     With nervous life, revives within our mind,     Tender as flowers of May, the thoughts of those     Who lie beneath the living beauty, dead, -         Beneath the sunshine, blind.         For brave dead soldiers, these:     Blessings and tears of aching thankfulness,     Soft flowers for the graves in wreaths enwove,     The odorous lilac of dear memories,     The heroic blossoms of the wilderness,         And the rich rose of love.         But who has sung their praise,     Not less illustrious, who are living yet?     Armies of heroes, satisfied to pass     Calmly, serenely from the whole world's gaze,     And cheerfully accept, without regret,         Their old life as it was,         With all its petty pain,     Its irritating littleness and care;     They who have scaled the mountain, with content     Sublime, descend to live upon the plain;     Steadfast as though they breathed the mountain-air         Still, wheresoe'er they went.         They who were brave to act,     And rich enough their action to forget;     Who, having filled their day with chivalry,     Withdraw and keep their simpleness intact,     And all unconscious add more lustre yet         Unto their victory.         On the broad Western plains     Their patriarchal life they live anew;     Hunters as mighty as the men of old,     Or harvesting the plenteous, yellow grains,     Gathering ripe vintage of dusk bunches blue,     Or working mines of gold;         Or toiling in the town,     Armed against hindrance, weariness, defeat,     With dauntless purpose not to serve or yield,     And calm, defiant, they struggle on,     As sturdy and as valiant in the street,         As in the camp and field.         And those condemned to live,     Maimed, helpless, lingering still through suffering years,     May they not envy now the restful sleep     Of the dear fellow-martyrs they survive?     Not o'er the dead, but over these, your tears,         O brothers, ye may weep!         New England fields I see,     The lovely, cultured landscape, waving grain,     Wide haughty rivers, and pale, English skies.     And lo! a farmer ploughing busily,     Who lifts a swart face, looks upon the plain, -         I see, in his frank eyes,         The hero's soul appear.     Thus in the common fields and streets they stand;     The light that on the past and distant gleams,     They cast upon the present and the near,     With antique virtues from some mystic land,         Of knightly deeds and dreams.