His rough-hewn comrades, bred to boisterous ways,
Jeered at the slender youth with maiden hands,
Nicknamed him 'Nel,' and for a month or more
Kept up a fusillade of jokes and jeers.
Their jokes and jeers he heard but heeded not,
Or heeding did a kindly act for him
That jeered him loudest; so the hardy men
Came to look up to Paul as one above
The level of their rough and roistering ways.
He never joined the jolly soldier-sports,
But ever was the first at bugle-call,
Mastered the drill and often drilled the men.
Fatigued with duty, weary with the march
Under the blaze of the midsummer sun,
He murmured not--alike in sun or rain
His utmost duty eager to perform,
And ever ready--always just the same
Patient and earnest, sad and silent Paul.
"The day of battle came--that Sabbath day,
Midsummer.[A] Hot and blistering as the flames
Of prairie-fires wind-driven, the burning sun
Blazed down upon us and the blinding dust
Wheeled in dense clouds and covered all our ranks,
As we marched on to battle. Then the roar
Of batteries broke upon us. Glad indeed
That music to my soldiers, and they cheered
And cheered again and boasted--all but Paul--
And shouted _'On to Richmond!'_--He alone
Was silent--but his eyes were full of fire.
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