And then they told the story
Of his courage in the fight—
How he ruled a heathen war-ship
And fought it with his might.
It’s home he wrote his mother
When the smoke had cleared away:
“I can see—so don’t you worry—
Though I’m riddled by the fray.”
And the neighbors said, “How glorious!
What a Hero is your son!
The world is all a-talking
Of the battle that he won!”
I said, “Well, what’s a Hero?
He’s my brave son!”
And now to me he’s coming,
And he wears a Captain’s bars;
It’s a foreign nation’s uniform,
But wrapped in Stripes and Stars.
It’s home at last you’re coming,
And it’s home at last to me.
You’re a hero and immortal,
And you fought to make men free.
But your heart is cold within you
And your dear eyes cannot see!
They say, “Be strong, O mother;
Proud laurels crown his head!”
Alas, what’s left of glory?
My boy, my boy is dead!
AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE
To live a hero, then to stand
In bronze serene above the city’s throng;
Hero at sea, and now on land
Revered by thousands as they rush along;
If these were all the gifts of fame—
To be a shade amid alert reality,
And win a statue and a name—
How cold and cheerless immortality!
But when the sun shines in the Square,
And multitudes are swarming in the street,
Children are always gathered there,
Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.
And in the crisis of the game—
With boyish grit and ardor it is played—
You’ll hear some youngster call his name:
“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”