And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
Now may’st thou slumber—thy work is done—
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou’rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow’d:
O lover of battle and trumpet-sound!