The Fallen Private: To Whom the War Meant Emancipation

He is not dead! they never die 
     Who for a noble purpose fall:
Loud in his country's battle-cry
     He heard the voice of duty call;
And calmly on that harvest-plain,
Where men were mowed like falling grain, 
Faced lead, and fire, and iron rain,
     That Freedom's flower might bloom for all.

In every throb of his true heart
     Beat manhood in its naked form;
No need of glittering toys of art
     To mark him noble; in that storm, S
o fearless, firm—in peace, so mild, 
Womanly, modest, and undefiled;
By gunshots torn, he only smiled;
     High faith kept ebbing life-blood warm.

As close again the shattered lines, 
     A tear will honor him who fell;
His home amid the Northern vines
     Shall guard his humble memory well—
Where honest pride will breathe his name, 
Unstained by any taint of shame;
"True to the last"-a purer fame
     Than follows many a chieftain's knell.

High names lend luster to renown, 
     And men are proud to give them praise;
But home-love weaves a myrtle crown
     More sacred than their greenest bays.
The ribbon and the gilded star 
Glitter and dazzle from afar;
Unseen the purest honors are—
     Mute sorrows o'er a vacant place!

Mother! though tears may not be dried, 
     The grandeur of his hope can lend 
A more than Roman matron's pride, 
     In suffering for a holy end;
Not all for this — that he was brave, 
Not that thy boy gave life to save 
An empire crumbling to its grave—
     He died for God! — the bondman's friend!

And so he lives — forever lives—
     A portion of the boundless good—
The glorious freedom that God gives
     The land he purifies in blood!
And though he passed away unknown, 
A million hearts will thrill his own 
With songs that reach the Eternal Throne, 
     And bless him bathed in glory's flood!