The finest tribute we can pay
Unto our hero dead to-day
Is not of speech or roses red,
But living, throbbing hearts instead
That shall renew the pledge they sealed
With death upon the battlefield:
That freedom's flag shall bear no stain
And free men wear no tyrant's chain.
The Soldier on Crutches
He came down the stairs on the laughter-filled grill
Where patriots were eating and drinking their fill,
The tap of his crutch on the marble of white
Caught my ear as I sat all alone there that night.
I turned--and a soldier my eyes fell upon,
He had fought for his country, and one leg was gone!
As he entered a silence fell over the place;
Every eye in the room was turned up to his face.
His head was up high and his eyes seemed aflame
With a wonderful light, and he laughed as he came.
He was young--not yet thirty--yet never he made
One sign of regret for the price he had paid.
One moment before this young soldier came in
I had caught bits of speech in the clatter and din
From the fine men about me in life's dress parade
Who were boasting the cash sacrifices they'd made;
And I'd thought of my own paltry service with pride,
When I turned and that hero of battle I spied.
I shall never forget the hot flushes of shame
That rushed to my cheeks as that young fellow came.
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