In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!
Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
A FRAGMENT.
Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o’er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave—
We call you back no more!