Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war?
And rise these piles in memory of the slain,
And the red combat of the mountain-plain?
It may be thus:—the vestiges of strife,
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life,
And the rude arrow’s barb remains to tell[152]
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior’s pride,
The chieftain’s power—they had no bard, and died.[153]
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere,