Orders were strict and often hard to bear—­
Nor tents nor fire upon the picket-posts—­
Cold rations and a canopy of storms. 
I pitied Paul and would have called him in,
But that I had no man to take his place;
Nor did I know he took upon himself
A double task.  His comrade on the post
Was ill, and so he made a shelter for him
With his own blankets and a bed within;
And took the watch of both upon himself. 
And on the third night near the dawn of day,
In rubber cloak stole in upon the post
A pompous major, on the nightly round,
Unchallenged.  All fatigued and drenched with rain,
Still on his post with rifle in his hand—­
Against a sheltering elm Paul stood and slept. 
Muttering of death the brutal major stormed,
Then pitiless pricked the comrade with his sword,
And from his shelter drove him to the watch,
Burning with fever.  There Paul interposed
And said: 

“’I ask no mercy at your hands;
I shall not whimper, but my comrade here
Is ill of fever; I have stood his watch: 
Sir, if a human heart beats in your breast,
Send him to camp, or he will surely die.’

“The pompous brute—­vaingloriously great
In straps and buttons—­haughtily silenced Paul,
Hand-bound and sent him guarded to the camp,
And the poor comrade shivering stood the watch
Till dawn of day and I was made aware. 
Among the true were some vainglorious fools
Called by the fife and drum from native mire
To lord and strut in shoulder-straps and buttons. 
Scrubs, born to brush the boots of gentlemen,
By sudden freak of fortune found themselves
Masters of better men, and lorded it
As only base and brutish natures can—­
Braves on parade and cowards under fire.

“I interceded in my Paul’s behalf,
Else he had suffered graver punishment,
But as himself for mercy would not beg—­
‘A stubborn boy,’ our bluff old colonel said—­
To extra duty for a month he went
Unmurmuring, storm or shine.  When the cold rain
Poured down most pitiless Paul, drenched and wan,
Guarded the baggage and the braying mules. 
When the hot sun at mid-day blazed and burned,
Like the red flame on Mauna Loa’s top,
Withering the grass and parching earth and air,
I often saw him knapsacked and full-dressed,
Drilling the raw recruits at double-quick;
And yet he wore a patient countenance,
And went about his duty earnestly
As if it were a pleasure to obey.

“The month wore off and mad disaster came—­
Gorging the blood of heroes at Ball’s Bluff. 
’Twas there the brave, unfaltering Baker fell
Fighting despair between the jaws of death. 
Quenched was the flame that fired a thousand hearts;
Hushed was the voice that shook the senate-walls,
And rang defiance like a bugle-blast. 
Broad o’er the rugged mountains to the north
Fell the incessant rain till, like a sea,