And now a broken and saddened man bends over a grassy grave,
’Tis but the ghost of the lover, the soldier so strong and brave.
‘Oh, what are fame and glory?’ cries he in his anguish sore.
‘Oh, love, thou art all I care for, wilt thou never come back to me more?’
And the river, the silent river, flowing onward into the sea,[217] ]
And the willows bending and waving thro’ the air so sweet and free,
Seem whisp’ring low the story of the soldier loving and brave,
Of the maiden true and tender—of the grassy, silent grave,
Of the end of fame and glory, of riches which too soon rust,
Of the end of all things earthly—only the crumbling dust.”