I waved the boughs of the clustering vines,
As their shadows fell o’er the mouldering lines,
Which mark the spot of the warrior’s tomb,
In that home of glory and land of bloom.
And I kissed the brow of the dark-eyed girl,
As I stirred with my pinions each raven curl.
Nay, ask not a tale of unmingled joy,
For earth has no pleasure without alloy;
The widow’s moan, and the orphan’s wail,
Are often borne on the sighing gale.