No fuller language find?
Away! and hush the feeble song,
And let the chord be still’d!
Far in another land ere long
My dream shall be fulfill’d.
MARSHAL SCHWERIN’S GRAVE.
[“I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin—a plain, quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here, at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle—his foot in the iron stirrup—his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last.”—Notes and Reflections during a Ramble into Germany.]
Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,