The Last Camp.

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To H. C.

We found him where the empty river-bed
Ended his hope, and left him but to die—
Alone, unwatched, without one pitying sigh
To ease his parting; so his soul was sped.
And yet—it seemed so strange—his pillowed head
Lay quietly at rest, fronting the sky;
His mouth was smiling still, his brow held high;
Almost a man he looked, lying there dead.

The sun had burned him, storms had beaten him,
This nameless, ageless wanderer, who threw
His load of troubles down, willing to cease.
Since life had turned to him a face so grim
He smiled at death with the last breath he drew.
Grievous his struggle, but how grand his peace.

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