But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

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.

Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light, ne’er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried.

Go, forget me! why should sorrow O’er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me, and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing! Smile,—though I shall not be near thee; Sing,—though I shall never hear thee!

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.