“I raised a company of riflemen,
Marched to the front, and proud of my command,
Nor seeking higher, led them till the day
Of triumph and the nation’s jubilee. 
Among the first that answered to my call
The hero came whose story you shall hear. 
’Tis better I describe him:  He was young—­
Near two and twenty—­neither short nor tall—­
A slender student, and his tapering hands
Had better graced a maiden than a man: 
Sad, thoughtful face—­a wealth of raven hair
Brushed back in waves from forehead prominent;
A classic nose—­half Roman and half Greek;
Dark, lustrous eyes beneath dark, jutting brows,
Wearing a shade of sorrow, yet so keen,
And in the storm of battle flashing fire.

“‘Well, boy,’ I said, ’I doubt if you will do;
I need stout men for picket-line and march—­
Men that have bone and muscle—­men inured
To toil and hardships—­men, in short, my boy,
To march and fight and march and fight again.’ 
A queer expression lit his earnest face—­
Half frown—­half smile.

“‘Well try me.’  That was all
He answered, and I put him on the roll—­
Paul Douglas, private—­and he donned the blue. 
Paul proved himself the best in my command;
I found him first at reveille, and first
In all the varied duties of the day. 
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.

[A] The first battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.