The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
51
MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.
Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
52
Now may'st thou slumber—thy work is done—
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!
A quiet home from the noonday's glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair,
To win thee but this at last?
And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair,
To win thee but this at last?
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |