Now snowy wreaths will melt away,
And buds of red will shine around;
But, heedless of the sunny ray,
Thy form shall wither in the ground.
Oft hath thy father dared the foe,
And, while their arrows drank his blood,
And round him lay his brothers low,
Careless ’mid thousand darts he stood.
But when he saw thee droop thy head,
Thy little limbs grow stiff and cold,