'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon Look'd down on the dead and dying; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail Where the young and brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stept, where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paus'd beside it; He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength, -- But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loos'd his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him; And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand, As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it. "Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there in honour and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping! |