They hade no requiem flow;
What left they there to tell the brave
That a warrior sleeps below?
A shiver’d spear, a cloven shield,
A helm with its white plume torn,
And a blood-stain’d turf on the fatal field,
Where a chief to his rest was borne.
He lies not where his fathers sleep,
But who hath a tomb more proud?
For the Syrian wilds his record keep,