Uniting with the sentry's muffled tread,
Which seemed a measured requiem for the dead,
As, side by side, in death's eternal sleep,
I laid them tenderly, nor paused to weep,
For feelings which in tears find no relief
Had dried the very fountainheads of grief.
I shaped a double mound above their clay,
Planted a wooden cross,—and went my way.
That night I tore the medals from my breast,