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: