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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, I fell.
The country I died for will never 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 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 splendor 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!
|
 "Trooper Meditating
beside a Grave,"
by Winslow Homer, 1865.
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