The Soldier's is a name none recognise
Saving his fellows. Deeds are all his flower.
He lives, he toils, he suffers, and he dies,
And if not vainly spent, this is his dower.
The Soldier is the Martyr of a nation,
Expresses but is subject to its will,
His is the Pride ennobles Resignation
As his the rebel Spirit-to-fulfil.
Anonymous, he takes his country's name,
Becomes its blindest vassal—though its lord
By force of arms—its shame is called his shame,
As its the glory gathered by his sword.
Lonely he is: he has nor friend nor lover,
Sith in his body he is dedicate....
His comrades only share his life and offer
Their further deeds to one more heart oblate.
Living, he's made an "Argument Beyond"
For others' peace; but when hot wars have birth,
For all his brothers' safety he is bond
To Fate or Whatsoever sways this Earth.
Dying, his mangled body, to inter it,
He doth bequeath him into comrade hands,
His soul he renders to some Captain Spirit
That knows, admires, pities, and understands!·····
