Classic Poem

Where the red path of battle sweeps,
Where martial feet have trod,
And Death the ripened harvest reaps,
To offer up to God;
Where steel and smoke and cannon roll
Awake the startled air,
You test the strength of fire and soul,
And find your heroes there.

I too, upon my scroll of fame,
Have set those names apart,
Whose blood was poured to quench the flame
That fired their country's heart;
Who looked beyond the shades of death,
Though doubt and fear were nigh,
And gave each pulse of life and breath,
That Freedom might not die.

But I have other names beside,
That you perhaps would scout,
For no great triumph broad and wide
Has rung their praises out:
No passion shock, no battle blaze,
Has raised them from the dust;
They have but walked life's humble ways,
And held life's humble trust.

'T is grand to see the spirit rise
Before some pending fate,
To see the soul in human eyes
Shine out divinely great;
To see men strike against the night
Of earthly wrong and sin,
And scorch it with the scathing might
That speaks the God within;

Yet when I read the storied past,
In which such deeds have place,
While the quick blood beats high and fast,
In triumph for my race,
I can but think how many a life,
As true, as strong, as brave,
Has conquered in an unknown strife,
And filled an unknown grave.

The men who fight through want and war,
Yet heave not sigh nor groan,
Who show the mark of wound and scar
To God and heaven alone,
Who bear their burdens, calm and strong,
Through all that life endures, —
These too are Heroes am I wrong
To place them high as your?