Where birds are blithe on every brake—
Where forests teem with deer—
Where glide the fish through every lake—
One chase from year to year!
With spirits now he feasts above;
All left us—to revere
The deeds we honor with our love,
The dust we bury here.
Here bring the last gift! loud and shrill
Wail, death dirge for the brave!
What pleased him most in life may still
Give pleasure in the grave.
We lay the ax beneath his head
He swung when strength was strong—
The bear on which his banquets fed—
The way from earth is long!
And here, new sharped, place the knife
That severed from the clay,
From which the ax had spoiled the life,
The conquered scalp away!
The paints that deck the dead bestow—
Yes, place them in his hand—
That red the kingly shade may glow
Amid the spirit-land.
SIR. E. L. BULWER.