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.

 

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 crowned 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.

 

The soldier’s heart at thy step leaped high,

  And thy voice the war-horse knew;

And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,

  Wert thou, the bold and true.

 

Now mayest 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.

 

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around,

  Where fiery blood hath flowed;

O, lover of battle and trumpet-sound!

  Thou art couched 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?