50 THE CONFESSION.
And I, plebian soldier, dared
To love that lady from afar ;
To strive that I might bravely win Some rank which might guide me within
The inner glory of my star.
If she were there, where now you sit, Her pardon I would humblv crave For daring thus with rash desire To such position to aspire This side our common lot — the grave ;
Confess that with presumptuous hope I thought to win her love with fame ; When, after years of arduous toil, Through danger and the camp's turmoil, The nameless soldier found his name.
Then Fortune left him ; from the field His comrades bore him, wounded sore, And long in hospital he stayed, Until his restless soul essayed To reach the town beloved of yore.
He gained his wish, but sickness came Again and laid the soldier low ; And in this hospital he waits, Till Death, most certain of the Fates, Shall come to strike the final blow.
In fevered dreams he seems to hear A sweet, low voice, and feels a hand,
That brings to mind those former days, When, on the wings of courtly praise, His lady's fame flew through the land.
'Twas only you, my nurse, a saint Whose blessed life has thus been given In Christ-like deeds to all around, Whose brow shall be divinely crowned With glory in the court of Heaven.
My lady proud is gone, and you Are reigning meekly in her stead,
With face and form and voice like hers, But with a meekness that avers My lady proud is surely dead.
I've lost my labor. I could gain
A queen in rank more easily
Than I could win this patient saint, Who, leaving wealth without complaint,
Does the Lord's work so busily.
For, in her sight what is my fame? The price of blood. 'Tis on my brow
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