Its eras, though with tragedy replete, Form stepping-stones whereon ambitious feet May mount to prominence, perhaps to fame, And write in crimson an illustrious name. 'Tis said that heroes are the fruits of war, No matter what the struggle may be for, As men will fight to make, or unmake laws, Will fight for, or against the worthiest cause. They must have heroes, though to make them drains The life-blood from the nation's noblest veins. And though no vocal adulations rise, Their heroes many men apotheosize. Man is so strangely constituted, he Must hero-worshipper, or hero be,-- So give him heroes, let the armies bleed, And he will worship them with word and deed; Though down within their breasts most men prefer To be the hero, than the worshipper. To gain the plaudits of the multitude, The warrior, with ambitious zeal imbued, Climbs upward, and accomplishing his ends To take his share of worship condescends, Forgetting that his honors are bedewed With human tears and based on human blood. Some streaks, in military pomp, we see, That savor much of pride and vanity, As thirst for notoriety and fame Has often fanned the patriotic flame. Though one might think that men would be content To pluck one star from glory's firmament, Yet, when they mount the ladder a few rounds, Their envy and ambition know no bounds. To wear the epaulette and strut with pride, Makes men forget that war is homicide. Some call it fate, some call it destiny, Some call it accident; what'er it be, It seems that some have been created for The honors, some, the sacrifice of war. * * * * * When I enlisted as a raw recruit, Promotion was no object of pursuit, But liking honor more than sacrifice, On shoulder-straps I soon cast envious eyes. For one rash act,--'twas counted bravery, Good fortune made a corporal of me. Soon, as if favored by some lucky charm, I wore a sergeant's stripes upon my arm. Twice was I wounded, twice resumed the field Before my wounds had been completely healed. I carry yet, and shall until I die, A musket ball, encysted in my thigh. Twice was I captured, twice as prisoner Drank I the dregs from out the cup of war. As if some guardian star my course arranged, Once I escaped, and once was I exchanged. Then, as lieutenant, rose I from the ranks, Received a medal and a vote of thanks.