us,
As one is startled by some horrid dream;
Whereat old veterans muttered in their sleep.

"Midnight had passed, and I lay wakeful still,
When Paul arose and sat upon the sward.
He said: 'I cannot sleep; unbidden thoughts
That will not down crowd on my restless brain.
Captain, I know not how, but still I know
That I shall see but one more sunrise. Morn
Will bring the clash of arms--to-morrow's sun
Will look upon unnumbered ghastly heaps
And gory ranks of dead and dying men,
And ere it sink beyond the western hills
Up from this field will roll a mighty shout
Victorious, echoed over all the land,
Proclaiming joy to freemen everywhere.
And I shall fall. I cannot tell you how
I know it--but I feel it in my soul.
I pray that death may spare me till I hear
Our shout of _"Victory!"_ rolling o'er these hills:
Then will I lay me down and die in peace.'

"I lightly said--'Sheer superstition, Paul;
I'll wager a month's pay you'll live to fight
A dozen battles yet. They ill become
A gallant soldier on the battle field--
Such grandam superstitions. You have fought
Ever like a hero--do you falter now?'

"'Captain,' he said, 'I shall not falter now,
But gladlier will I hail the rising sun.
Death has no terror for a heart like mine:
Say what you may and call it what you will--
I know that I shall fall to rise no more
Before the sunset of the coming day.
If this be superstition--still I know;
If this be fear it will not hold me back.'
I answered:

"'Friend, I hope this prophecy
Will prove you a false prophet; but, my Paul,
Have you no farewells for your friends at home?
No message for a nearer, dearer one?'

"'None; there is none I knew in other days
Knows where or what I am. So let it be.
If there be those--not many--who may care
For one who cares so little for himself,
Surely my soldier-name in the gazette
Among the killed will bring no pang to them.
And then he laid himself upon the sward;
Perhaps he slept--I know not, for fatigue
O'ercame me and I slept.

"The picket guns
At random firing wakened me. The morn
Came stealing softly o'er the somber hills;
Dark clouds of smoke hung hovering o'er the field.
Blood-red as risen from a sea of blood,
The tardy sun as if in dread arose,
And hid his face in the uprising smoke.
As when the pale moon, envious of the glow
And gleam and glory of the god of day,
Creeps in by stealth between the earth and him,
Eclipsing all his glory,