HE sleeps, his head upon his sword, <br />His soldier's cloak a shroud; <br />His church-yard is the open field,-- <br />Three times it has been plough'd: <br /> <br />The first time that the wheat sprung up <br />'Twas black as if with blood, <br />The meanest beggar turn'd away <br />From the unholy food. <br /> <br />The third year, and the grain grew fair, <br />As it was wont to wave; <br />None would have thought that golden corn <br />Was growing on the grave. <br /> <br />His lot was but a peasant's lot, <br />His name a peasant's name, <br />Not his the place of death that turns <br />Into a place of fame. <br /> <br />He fell as other thousands do, <br />Trampled down where they fall, <br />While on a single name is heap'd <br />The glory gain'd by all. <br /> <br />Yet even he whose common grave <br />Lies in the open fields, <br />Died not without a thought of all <br />The joy that glory yields. <br /> <br />That small white church in his own land, <br />The lime trees almost hide, <br />Bears on the walls the names of those <br />Who for their country died. <br /> <br />His name is written on those walls, <br />His mother read it there, <br />With pride,--oh! no, there could not be <br />Pride in the widow's prayer. <br /> <br />And many a stranger who shall mark <br />That peasant roll of fame, <br />Will think on prouder ones, yet say <br />This was a hero's name.<br /><br />Letitia Elizabeth Landon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-record-3/
