I.
A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breeze
On an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,—
Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there,
With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer.
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed,
Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead;
Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold;
Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,—
Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine,