Dim twilight veiled the scene of glory and of death,
Till o’er the blood-stained snow,
The moon, pale, trembling, slow,
Revealed each crimsoned wreath.
Low on the victor-field the Warrior Chief was laid;
His eye still sought the foe, his hand still grasped the blade;
Triumphant was his smile, though dim his closing eye,—
While bending o’er the slain,
His mournful gallant train
Learnt how the brave should die.