And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told: How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.
Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.
Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?
Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,
Came two little maidens,—sisters, with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.
And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.
They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.
Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.
And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.
For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.