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!

VII.