She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone,
Had an echo of feelings that long seem’d flown.
She murmur’d a low sweet cradle-song,
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng—
A song of the time when her boy’s young cheek
Had glow’d on her breast in its slumber meek.
But something which breathed from that mournful strain
Sent a fitful gust o’er her soul again;
And starting, as if from a dream, she cried—
“Give him proud burial at my side!