Poems (Odom)/The Better Part
THE BETTER PART.
We hold the fame of our Southern dead
As a precious, sacred trust;
And we step with a slower, lighter tread,
When we pass their sleeping dust.
As a precious, sacred trust;
And we step with a slower, lighter tread,
When we pass their sleeping dust.
Their blood-stained memories enfold
Our mourning hearts to-day;
And we pile the marble high and cold
Above their pulseless clay.
Our mourning hearts to-day;
And we pile the marble high and cold
Above their pulseless clay.
A hundred golden records shine,
To tell the dead men's fame;
While laurel leaflets closely twine
Around each sculptured name.
To tell the dead men's fame;
While laurel leaflets closely twine
Around each sculptured name.
Our patriotic tear-drops fall
Upon their names we carve—
The sire sleeps in his marble hall
The while his children starve.
Upon their names we carve—
The sire sleeps in his marble hall
The while his children starve.
His little ones may cry for bread,
His hapless widow freeze—
Our sympathies are with the dead,
But not with such as these.
His hapless widow freeze—
Our sympathies are with the dead,
But not with such as these.
We pass them in the busy street,
Nor heed their pleading moans;
Their hearts may bleed beneath our feet—
We honor dead men's bones.
Nor heed their pleading moans;
Their hearts may bleed beneath our feet—
We honor dead men's bones.
We give our tears, we heap our gold,
Above their crumbling dust;
Forgetting that we still may hold
A higher, purer trust.
Above their crumbling dust;
Forgetting that we still may hold
A higher, purer trust.
Forgetting that a loaf of bread
Fed to a soldier's child,
Is worth more to those heroes dead
Than all the stones we have piled.
Fed to a soldier's child,
Is worth more to those heroes dead
Than all the stones we have piled.