A Dead Soldier

He sleeps at last—a hero of his race. Dead!—and the night lies softly on his face, While the faint summer stars, like sentinels, Hover above his lonely resting-place. A soldier, yet less soldier than a man, Who gave to justice what a soldier can,— The courage of his arm, a patient heart, And the fire-soul that flamed when wrong began. Not Caesar, Alexander, Antonine, No despot born of the old warrior line, Napoleons of the sword, whose cruel hands Caught at the throat of love upon its shrine,— But one who worshipped in the sweeter years Those rights that men have gained with blood and tears; Who led his armies like a priest of men, And fought his battles with anointed spears.