For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain;
And the face that was as light to mine—it cannot come again!
“I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a crown;
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold renown;
How often will my weary heart midst the sounds of triumph die,
When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!
“I am lonely—I am lonely! this rest is even as death!
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet’s breath;
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave—
But where art thou, my brother? where? In thy low and early grave!”