And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown
That ask no urn to blazon their renown!
There shall the bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead;
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave
O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave!
Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear
In every breeze some name to glory dear;
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.