Congressman Rixey, you’re a statesman—you
Yourself will hardly say that you are not;
And yet I know not what you hope to do
For those Confederates whose luckless lot
Is to have lived through storms of Yankee shot
To this our day. They draw their breath, indeed,
But from the Government no cent of what
So admirably serves your nobler need.
You work for it? Why, that all cavilers concede.
You’d call these “rebels” to the Soldiers’ Homes
On equal terms with persons whom they fought!
Whereat the “truly loyal” statesman foams
At the loud mouth of him. But that is naught—
He foams, not for he must, but for he ought:
For the Poll-patriot’s emotions flow
By taking (with much else of value) thought.
His feelings, if he have them, never blow
His cooling coal of anger to a brighter glow.
Well, well, sir, even the Devil may be right
Through ignorance or accident. ’Tis said
We’re sometimes dazzled with too great a light.
In which the blind, with customary tread
(And by a small, unblinking puppy led)
Walk prosperous courses to appointed goals.
And so your critics, though without a head
Among them—eyeless, therefore, as the moles—
May wiser be than you, who damn their little souls!
If of two aged Southern gentlemen
Of equal need and worth, the one that tried
To cook the country’s goose—or say its hen—
Be blest with all the cheer we can provide,
And which to t’other sternly is denied
Because he didn’t, it will seem right queer.
The gods are logical and may deride.
Respect the Southern veteran, but fear
The laughter of Olympus sounding loud and clear!