Marks well that place of rest;
But who hath graved, on its mossy stone,
A sword, a helm, a crest?
These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
—Some blossom pluck’d, some faded leaf,
Should grace a maiden’s bier!
Scorn not her tomb—deny not her
The honours of the brave!
O’er that forsaken sepulchre