Poor Alice!—her grief has been tearless and dumb,
But the pressure once lifted, her senses succumb:
Too quick the revulsion,—too glad the surprise,—
The mists of unconsciousness curtain her eyes:
'Tis only a moment they suffer eclipse,
And words of thanksgiving soon thrill on her lips.
To Beechenbrook's quiet, with tenderest care,
They hasten the wounded, wan soldier to bear;
And never hung mother more patiently o'er
The couch of the child, her own bosom that bore,
Than Alice above the lone orphan, who lay
Submissively breathing his spirit away.
He knows that existence is ebbing; his brain
Is lucid and calm, in the pauses of pain;
But his round boyish cheek with no weeping is wet,
And his smile is not touched with a shade of regret.
No murmur is uttered—no lingering sigh
Escapes him;—so young,—yet so willing to die!
His garment of flesh he has worn undefiled,
His faith is the beautiful faith of a child:
He knows that the Crucified hung on the tree,
That the pathway to bliss might be open and free:
He believes that the cup has been drained,—he can find
Not a drop of the wrath that had filled it,—behind.
If ever a doubt or misgiving assails,
His finger he puts on the print of the nails;
If sometimes there springs an emotion of fear,
He lays his cold hand on the mark of the spear!
He thinks of his darling, dead mother;—the light
Of the Heavenly City falls full on his sight:
And under the rows of the palms, by the brim
Of the river—he knows she is waiting for him.
But the present comes back;—and on Alice's ear,
Fall whispers like these, as she pauses to hear:
"Only a private;—and who will care
When I may pass away,—
Or how, or why I perish, or where
I mix with the common clay?
They will fill my empty place again,
With another as bold and brave;
And they'll blot me out, ere the Autumn rain
Has freshened my nameless grave.
Only a private:—it matters not,
That I did my duty well;
That all through a score of battles I fought,
And then, like a soldier, fell:
The country I died for,—never will heed
My unrequited claim;
And history cannot record the deed,
For she never has heard my name.
Only a private;—and yet I know,
When I heard the rallying call,
I was one of the very first to go,
And ... I'm one of the many who fall:
But, as here I lie, it is sweet to feel,
That my honor's without a stain;—
That I only fought for my Country's weal,
And not for glory or gain.
Only a private;—yet He who reads
Through the guises of the heart,
Looks not at the splendour of the deeds,
But the way we do our part;
And when He shall take us by the hand,
And our small service own,
There'll a glorious band of privates stand
As victors around the throne!"
The breath of the morning is heavy and chill,
And gloomily lower the mists on the hill:
The winds through the beeches are shivering low,
With a plaintive and sad miserere of woe:
A quiet is over the Cottage,—a dread
Clouds the children's sweet faces,—Macpherson is dead!