DEATH.
Ye may twine young flowers round the sunny brow
Ye deck for the festal day,—
But mine is the shadow that waves o’er them now,
And their beauty has withered away.
Ye may gather bright gems for glory’s shrine,
Afar, from their cavern home—
Ye may gather the gems—but their pride is mine,
They will light the dark cold tomb.
The warrior’s heart beats high and proud,