Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, array’d
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid
In slumber on his shield. Then all was done—
All still around the dead. His name was heard
Perchance when wine-cups flow’d, and hearts were stirr’d
By some old song, or tale of battle won
Told round the hearth. But in his father’s breast
Manhood’s high passions woke again, and press’d
On to their mark; and in his friend’s clear eye