Cold eyes, that o'er his features range,
For time had wrought a weary change
Upon the soldier's brow.
And some there were—the lov'd—the dead—
Whom he no more could see,
From this cold changing world were fled,
And they had found a quiet bed
Beneath the old yew tree.
And thither too—the wanderer hied,
Night-dews were falling fast,