And there wild laurels, planted on the grave
By Nature’s hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave.
And on the margin of yon orchard hill
Are marks where time-worn battlements have been,
And in the tall grass traces linger still
Of “arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin.”
Five hundred of her brave that valley green
Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay;
But twenty lived to tell the noonday scene,—
And where are now the twenty? Passed away.