| |
| THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, | |
| And a banner in thy hand; | |
| Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there | |
| By a proudly mournful band. | |
| |
| In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle’s blast, | 5 |
| Thy long bright years had sped; | |
| And a warrior’s bier was thine at last, | |
| When the snows had crowned thy head. | |
| |
| Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! | |
| Brothers and friends, perchance; | 10 |
| But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, | |
| And light was in thy glance. | |
| |
| The soldier’s heart at thy step leaped high, | |
| And thy voice the war-horse knew; | |
| And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, | 15 |
| Wert thou, the bold and true. | |
| |
| Now mayest thou slumber,—thy work is done,— | |
| Thou of the well-worn sword! | |
| From the stormy fight in thy fame thou ’rt gone, | |
| But not to the festal board. | 20 |
| |
| The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, | |
| Where fiery blood hath flowed; | |
| O, lover of battle and trumpet-sound! | |
| Thou art couched in a still abode! | |
| |
| A quiet home from the noonday’s glare, | 25 |
| And the breath of the wintry blast,— | |
| Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair | |
| To win thee but this at last? | |
| |
