The Legend of Genevieve :: :: University of Virginia Library

Beneath the morn, on yonder plain,
In ardour high, the valiant stood;
At eve, the cold moon o'er the slain
Besilver'd ghastly scenes of blood:
Below that mound they now are sleeping,
Wakeful once, and warmly brave;
Alas! the midnight dews are weeping
On the Soldier's Grave.

Of them to hear the patriot listens;
Pensive Love a sigh bequeathes;
Virtue's tear, while praising, glistens,
Fame presents her laurell'd wreaths;

And fond Affection, nobly warming,
Will laud the hearts which strove to save;
And Memory wave her wand of charming
O'er the Soldier's Grave.

The trump of Fame they heard—obey'd—
Afar at sea, the waning shore
In sad and sombre blue decay'd,
And ne'er by them was welcomed more!
But Gratitude will grieve for Glory,
And give the tear which once they gave;
And Wisdom tell her mournful story
O'er the Soldier's Grave.

We live secure, and sleep at ease;
To bless our dwelling peace awaits—
They left their homes, and plough'd the seas,
To keep the battle from our gates:—
The forest moans—a voice of wailing—
Above their heads white cannachs wave;
The bittern shrieks at eve, when sailing
O'er the Soldier's Grave.

Oft, when the faggot sheds its light,
As winter mantles white the plain,
The sire will spend the noon of night
To tell of those in battle slain.
His children will the warmth inherit;
And pity will a tribute crave,
To soothe the rest, and calm the spirit
Of the Soldier's Grave.