Poem by Margaret Junkin Preston

Only a Private

Only a private — and who will care
   When I may pass away,
Or how, or why I perish, or where
   I mix with the common clay?
They will fill my empty place again
   With another as bold and brave;
And they'll blot me out ere the autumn rain
   Has freshened my nameless grave.
   
Only a private — it matters not
   That I did my duty well,
That all through a score of battles I fought,
   And then, like a soldier, I fell.
The country I died for will never heed
   My unrequited claim;
And History cannot record the deed,
   For she never has heard my name.
   
Only a private — and yet I know
   When I heard the rallying-call
I was one of the very first to go,
   And . . . I'm one of the many who fall:
But as here I lie, it is sweet to feel
   That my honor's without a stain, —
That I only fought for my country's weal,
   And not for glory or gain.
   
Only a private — yet He who reads
   Through the guises of the heart,
Looks not at the splendor of the deeds,
   But the way we do our part;
And when He shall take us by the hand,
   And our small service own,
There'll a glorious band of privates stand
   As victors around the throne!

1. Calling the Angels in
2. Gone Forward
3. The Reapers of Lindisfarne
4. The Bivouac in the Snow
5. Hymn to the National Flag

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