O'er him their valour could not save!
For the bayonet is red with gore,
And he, the beautiful and brave,
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand.--WILSON.


In the shadow of the Pyramid
Our brother's grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the Desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.

The blood-red sky above us
Was darkening into night,
And the Arab watching silently
Our sad and hurried rite.

The voice of Egypt's river
Came hollow and profound,
And one lone palm-tree, where we stood,
Rock'd with a shivery sound:

While the shadow of the Pyramid
Hung o'er the grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the Desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.

The fathers of our brother
Were borne to knightly tombs,