Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold
As the clay upon it prest;
And in many a slimy fold,
Winds the grave-worm round thy breast.
Thou wilt join the fight no more,--
Glory's dream with thee is o'er,--
And alike are now to thee
Greatness and obscurity.

But an ever sunny sky,
O'er thy place of rest is bending;
And above thy grave, and nigh,
Flowers ever bright are blending.
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the south wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!

When the alarum first was sounded,
Marshalling in arms the brave,
Forth thy fearless spirit bounded,
To obtain thee--what? A grave!
Fame had whispered in thine ear,
Words the high-souled love to hear,--
But the ruthless hand of death
From thee snatched the hero's wreath.

Often will the grief-shade start
O'er thy sister's mood of joy,
Vainly will thy mother's heart