Alethea S. Burroughs
I.
Bowing her head to the dust of the earth.
Smitten and stricken is she,
Light after light gone out from her hearth,
Son after son from her knee.
Bowing her head to the dust at her feet,
Weeping her beautiful slain,
Silence! keep silence, for aye in the street,
See! they are coming again.
II.
Coming again, oh! glorious ones,
Wrapped in the flag of the free;
Queen of the South! bright crowns for thy sons,
Only the cypress for _thee!_
Laurel, and banner, and music, and drum,
Marches, and requiems sweet;
Silence! keep silence! alas, how they come,
Oh! how they move through the street!
III.
Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go,
Bearing the young and the brave,
Fair as the summer, but white as the snow
Bearing them down to the grave.
Some in the morning, and some in the noou,
Some in the hey-day of life;
Bower nor blossom, nor summer nor June,
Wooing them back to the strife.
IV.
Some in the billow, afar, oh! afar,
Staining the waves with their blood;
One on the vessel’s high deck, like a star,
Sinking in glory’s bright-flood.[1]
Bowing her head to the dust of the earth,
Humbled but honored is she,
lighting the skies with the stars from her hearth,
Who shall her comforter be?
V.
Bring her, oh! bring her the garments of woe,
Sackcloth and ashes for aye;
Winds of the South! oh, a requiem blow,
Sighing and sorrow to-day.
Sprinkle the showers from heaven’s blue eyes
Wide o’er the green summer lea,
Rachel is weeping, oh! Lord of the skies,
Thou shalt her comforter be!
[1] Captain Thomas Pelot, C. S. N., killed at the capture of the
“Water Witch.”
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem returns to the image of the South as a grieving woman, but here the focus is not on defiance or command. It is on exhaustion. She is not rallying her sons. She is burying them. The opening image is simple and heavy: her head bowed to the dust. That gesture sets the tone for everything that follows. She is beaten down by loss. The repetition of “son after son” makes the grief feel endless, as if there is no bottom to it.
The poem builds its effect through contrast. In the second section, the dead return “wrapped in the flag of the free.” They are called glorious. They are crowned. But the mother receives only cypress, a traditional symbol of mourning. This sharp division is important. The sons are elevated. The mother is left in sorrow. The public ritual celebrates them with music and banners. Yet the repeated call for silence interrupts the pageantry. Even in triumph, there is restraint. The street fills with processions, but joy never fully appears.
The third section slows the pace. “Slowly, ah! mournfully, slowly they go.” The repetition drags the rhythm down. The poem wants the reader to feel the weight of each body carried past. Youth is emphasized. They are “young and brave,” fair as summer. That comparison makes the loss sharper. Summer suggests fullness and life. Snow suggests death and stillness. The image of June unable to call them back underlines the finality. No season can undo what war has done.
The fourth section widens the field. Some die at sea. The mention of a naval officer, Captain Thomas Pelot, ties the grief to a specific event in the war. The reference to the capture of the Water Witch grounds the poem in the history of the Confederate Navy and its struggles along the Southern coast. By including a named individual, the poem moves from symbolic grief to something more concrete. These are not just abstract martyrs. They are real men from real battles.
The language of light appears more than once. Early in the poem, lights are said to have gone out from her hearth. Later, the stars from her hearth light the skies. The meaning shifts. At first, the extinguished lights represent sons lost from the home. In the later lines, those lost sons become stars in the sky. The image is meant to comfort. The dead are no longer only absent. They shine above. But the question remains: who will comfort her? The poem does not answer until the final lines.
The last section abandons martial pride almost entirely. There is no call to arms. There is no curse on the enemy. Instead, there is sackcloth, ashes, wind, and rain. Nature is asked to mourn with her. The reference to Rachel weeping brings in a biblical image of a mother grieving for her children and refusing comfort. It shifts the poem into a religious frame. In the end, only God can serve as comforter. No human solution is offered.
What stands out in this poem is the balance between honor and sorrow. The sons are not described as wasted. They are glorious. They are honored. But the cost is not hidden. The repeated instructions for silence show that celebration feels out of place. The South is humbled as much as she is honored. The poem suggests that pride and devastation exist side by side.
Unlike more aggressive war poems, this one does not try to stir immediate action. It records the aftermath. The street filled with bodies, the mother bowed to the ground, the wind blowing a requiem. It gives space to grief without denying the belief in the cause. That combination makes the poem feel less like a battle cry and more like a lament shaped by loyalty.
In the end, the poem does not resolve the tension between sacrifice and suffering. It leaves the mother still bowed, still dependent on divine comfort. The glory of the sons does not erase her loss. It only changes its meaning.