With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves,
To canopy the dead; nor wanting there
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air,
Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream—
Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream.
There sleep the chiefs of old—their combats o’er,
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more.
Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows;
The sons of war at length in peace repose.
No martial note is in the gale that sighs