Classic Poem

Upon a barricade thrown 'cross the street
Where patriot's blood with felon's stains one's feet,
Ta'en with grown men, a lad aged twelve, or less!
“Were you among them—you?” He answered: “Yes.”
“Good,” said the officer, “when comes your turn,
You'll be shot too.”—The lad sees lightnings burn,—
Stretched 'neath the wall his comrades one by one:
Then says to the officer, “First let me run
And take this watch home to my mother, sir?”
“You want to escape?”—“No, I'll come back.”—“What fear
These brats have! Where do you live?”—“By the well, below:
I'll return quickly if you let me go.”
“Be off, young scamp!” Off went the boy. “Good joke!”
And here from all a hearty laugh outbroke,
And with this laugh the dying mixed their moan.
But the laugh suddenly ceased, when, paler grown,
'Midst them the lad appeared, and breathlessly
Stood upright 'gainst the wall with: “Here am I.”

Dull death was shamed; the officer said, “Be free!”

Child, I know not, in all this agony
Where good and ill as with one blast of hell
Are blent, thy part, but this I know right well,
That thy young soul's a hero-soul sublime.
Gentle and brave, thou trod'st, despite all crime,
Two steps,—one toward thy mother, one toward death.
For the child's deeds the grown man answereth;
No fault was thine to march where others led.
But glorious aye that child who chose instead
Of flight that lured to life, love, freedom, May,
The sombre wall 'neath which slain comrades lay!
Glory on thy young brow imprints her kiss.
In Hellas old, sweetheart, thou hadst, y-wis,
After some deathless fight to win or save,
Been hailed by comrades bravest of the brave;—
Hadst smiling in the holiest ranks been found,
Haply by some Æschylean verse bright-crowned!
On brazen disks thy name had been engraven;—
One of those godlike youths who, 'neath blue heaven,
Passing some well whereo'er the willow droops
What time some virgin 'neath her pitcher stoops
Brimmed for her herds athirst, brings to her eyes
A long long look of awed yet sweet surmise.