And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass-- Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;-- Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle’s magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend--foe,--in one red burial blent!
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, How the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory.
There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war.