The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 57, July, 1862. Various

      Good is the soldier's trade,

      For envy well made:

      The lightning-blade

      Over force-men he swingeth;

      A loved one shall prize

      The honor he bringeth;

      Is there a duty?

      That's soldier's booty,—

      To have it he dies.

      True for his king and land

      The Northman will stand;

      An oath is a band,—

      He never can rend it;

      The dear coast, 't is right

      A son should defend it;

      For battle he burneth,

      Death's smile he returneth,

      And bleeds with delight.

      Scars well set off his face,—

      Each one is a grace;

      His profit they trace,—

      No labor shines brighter:

      A wreath is the scar

      On the brow of a fighter;

      His maid thinks him fairer,

      His ornament rarer

      Than coat with a star.

      Reaches the king his hand,

      That makes his soul grand,

      And fast loyal band

      Round his heart it is slinging;

      From Fatherland's good

      The motion was springing:

      His deeds so requited,

      Is gratefully lighted

      A man's highest mood.

      Bravery's holy fire,

      Beam nobler and higher,

      And light our desire

      A path out of madness!

      By courage and deed

      We conquer peace-gladness:

      We suffer for that thing,

      We strike but for that thing,

      And gladly we bleed.

      The muffled drums to our marching play.

      How distant the spot, and how long the way!

      Oh, were I at rest, and the bitterness through!

      Methinks it will break my heart in two!

      Him only I loved of all below,—

      Him only who yet to death must go;

      At the rolling music we parade,

      And of me too, me, the choice is made!

      Once more, and the last, he looks upon

      The cheering light of heaven's sun;

      But now his eyes they are binding tight:

      God grant to him rest and other light!

      Nine muskets are lifted to the eye,

      Eight bullets have gone whistling by;

      They trembled all with comrades' smart,—

      But I—I hit him in his heart!

      Full thirty years art thou of age, hast many a

      storm lived through,

      Brother-like hast round me tightened,

      And whenever cannons lightened,

      Both of us no terror knew.

      Wet soaking to the skin we lay for many a

      blessed night,

      Thou alone hast warmth imparted,

      And if I was heavy-hearted,

      Telling thee would make me light.

      My secrets thou hast never spoke, wert ever still and true;

      Every tatter did befriend me,

      Therefore I'll no longer mend thee,

      Lest, old chap, 't would make thee new.

      And dearer still art thou to ma when jests about thee roll;

      For where the rags below are dropping,

      There went through the bullets popping,—

      Every bullet makes a hole.

      And when the final bullet comes to stop a German heart,

      Then, old cloak, a grave provide me,

      Weather-beaten friend, still hide me,

      As I sleep in thee apart.

      There lie we till the roll-call together in the grave:

      For the roll I shall be heedful,

      Therefore it will then be needful

      For me an old cloak to have.

      Just help me, Lottie, as I spring;

      My arm is feeble, see,—

      I still must have it in a sling;

      Be softly now with me!

      But do not let the canteen slip,—

      Here, take it first, I pray,—

      For when that's broken from my lip,

      All joys will flow away.

      "And why for that so anxious?—pshaw!

      It is not worth a pin:

      The common glass, the bit of straw,

      And not a drop within!"

      No matter, Lottie, take it out,—

      'T is past your reckoning:

      Yes, look it round and round about,—

      There drank from it—my King!

      By Leipsic near, if you must know,—

      'T was just no children's play,—

      A ball hit me a grievous blow,

      And in the crowd I lay;

      Nigh death, they bore me from the scene,

      My garments off they fling,

      Yet held I fast by my canteen,—

      There drank from it—my King!

      For once our ranks in passing through

      He paused,—we saw his face;

      Around us keen the volleys flew,

      He calmly kept his place.

      He thirsted,—I could see it plain,

      And courage took to bring

      My old canteen for him to drain,—

      He drank from it—my King!

      He