So full of patience did he wait,
Through many a weary hour,
That o'er his simple soldier-faith
Not even death had power;
And you—did others whisper low
Their homage in your ear,
As though among their shallow throng
His spirit had a peer?

I would that you were by me now,
To draw the sheet aside
And see how pure the look he wore
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave to him
Had left its weary trace,
As 'twere the shadow of the cross
Upon his pallid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me
The winter's cold to spring."
Ah, trust of fickle maiden's love,
Thou art a bitter thing!
For when these valleys, bright in May,
Once more with blossoms wave,
The northern violets shall blow
Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pang to bear
For him who kissed unto the last
Your tress of golden hair;
I did not put it where he said,
For when the angels come,
I would not have them find the sign
Of falsehood in the tomb.

I've read your letter, and I know
The wiles that you have wrought
To win that trusting heart of his,
And gained it—cruel thought!
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
For what is worthless all
What manly bosoms beat for them
In folly's falsest thrall!

You shall not pity him, for now
His sorrow has an end;
Yet would that you could stand with me
Beside my fallen friend!
And I forgive you for his sake,
As he—if he be forgiven—
May e'en be pleading grace for you
Before the court of Heaven.

To-night the cold winds whistle by,
As I my vigil keep
Within the prison dead-house, where
Few mourners come to weep.
A rude plank coffin holds his form;
Yet death exalts his face,
And I would rather see him thus
Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your home may shine with light
And ring with merry song,
And you be smiling as your soul
Had done no deadly wrong;
Your hand so fair that none would think
It penned these words of pain;
Your skin so white—would God your heart
Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead
Than you in life supreme;
For yours the sinner's waking dread,
And his the martyr's dream!
Whom serve we in this life we serve
In that which is to come;
He chose his way, you—yours; let God
Pronounce the fitting doom.

Poem 16