Beechenbrook | Page 8

lucid and
calm, in the pauses of pain;
But his round boyish cheek with no
weeping is wet,
And his smile is not touched with a shade of regret.
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.
'Tis Autumn,--and Nature the forest has hung
With arras more
gorgeous than ever was flung
From Gobelin looms,--all so varied, so
rare,
As never the princeliest palaces were.
Soft curtains of haze the
far mountains enfold,
Whose warp is of purple, whose woof is of
gold,
And the sky bends as peacefully, purely above,
As if earth
breathed an atmosphere only of love.
But thick as white asters in Autumn, are found
The tents all
bestrewing the carpeted ground;
The din of a camp, with its stir and
its strife,
Its motley and strange, multitudinous life,
Floats upward
along the brown slopes, till it fills
The echoing hollows afar in the
hills.
'Tis the twilight of Sabbath,--and sweet through the air, Swells the blast
of the bugle, that summons to prayer:
The signal is answered, and
soon in the glen
Sits Colonel Dunbar in the midst of his men.
The Chaplain advances with reverent face,
Where lies a felled oak, he
has chosen his place;
On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays,

And they bow on the grass, as he solemnly prays.
Underneath thine open sky,
Father, as we bend the knee,
May we
feel thy presence nigh,
--Nothing 'twixt our souls and thee!
We are weary,--cares and woes
Lay their weight on every breast,

And each heart before thee knows,
That it sighs for inward rest.
Thou canst lift this weight away,
Thou canst bid these sighings cease;

Thou canst walk these waves and say
To their restless

tossings--"Peace!"
We are tempted;--snares abound,--
Sin its treacherous meshes weaves;

And temptations strew us round,
Thicker than the Autumn leaves.
Midst these perils, mark our path,
Thou who art 'the life, the way;'

Rend each fatal wile that hath
Power to lead our souls astray.
Prince of Peace! we follow Thee!
Plant thy banner in our sight;
Let
thy shadowy legions be
Guards around our tents to-night."
Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim As a cloister'd
Cathedral, the notes of a hymn
Float tenderly upward,--now soft and
now clear,
As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear;
Now
swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,--
Now sobbing itself into
sadness again.
The Bible is opened, and stillness profound
Broods over the listeners
scattered around;
And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm,

Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm.
Then simply and
earnestly pleading,--his face
Lit up with persuasive and eloquent
grace,
The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart, His
words of entreaty and truth, ere they part.
"I see before me valiant men,
With courage high and true,
Who
fight as only heroes fight,
And die, as heroes do.
Your serried ranks