The day was o’er, and in their tent the weaned victors met, <br />In wine and social gaiety the carnage to forget. <br />The merry laugh and sparkling jest, the pleasant tale were there— <br />Each heart was free and gladsome then, each brow devoid of care. <br /> <br />Yet one was absent from the board who ever was the first <br />In every joyous, festive scene, in every mirthful burst; <br />He also was the first to dare each perilous command, <br />To rush on danger—yet was he the youngest of the band. <br /> <br />Upon the battle-field he lay a damp and fearful grave; <br />His right hand grasped the cherished flag—the flag he died to save; <br />While the cold stars shone calmly down on heaps of fallen dead, <br />And their pale light a halo cast round that fair sleeper’s head. <br /> <br />Say, was there none o’er that young chief to shed one single tear, <br />To sorrow o’er the end of his untimely stopt career? <br />Yes, but alas! the boundless sea its foam and crested wave, <br />Lay then between those beings dear and his cold, cheerless grave. <br /> <br />With all a mother’s doting love a mother yearned for him, <br />And watching for his quick return, a sister’s eye grew dim, <br />And, dearer still, a gentle girl, his fair affianced bride,— <br />And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died. <br /> <br />No woman’s low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say <br />Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away; <br />But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave? <br />His was a soldier’s glorious death, a soldier’s glorious grave!<br /><br />Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-soldier-s-death/
