In the church-yard, upon
some of the pews arranged for the purpose, had been placed the
lifeless bodies of the three men who had died during the night. There
they lay, stark and stiff. Upon these cold, dead faces no mourners'
tears would fall; no friends would bear with reverend tread these
honored forms to their last resting-place. Rough pine boxes would soon
cover the faces once the light of some far-away home, careless hands
would place them in their shallow graves, without a prayer, without a
tear. Only the loving hand of nature to plant flowers above them.
For months after entering the service I insisted upon attending every
dead soldier to the grave and reading over him a part of the
burial-service. But it had now become impossible. The dead were past
help; the living _always_ needed succor. But no soldier ever died in
my presence without a whispered prayer to comfort his parting soul. Ah
me! The "prayers for the sick, and those near unto death," are to this
day more familiar to me than any other portion of the Prayer-Book, and
at no time can I hear unmoved the sacred old hymns so often sung
beside dying beds.
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