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,