Sevastopol

OVER the Dead is a Syrian sky,

  And a light wind blows from the Vale of Baidar;

But what care they as they mutely lie,—

  Column and captain, steed and rider?

Tulips and poppies can never bloom

  Dear to their slumber as English daisies;

Nor the nightingale’s warble in bowery gloom

  Atone for the skylark’s rapturous mazes.

Ghostly cities and nameless graves;—

  This is the sum of the battle’s story!

And the wind of Baidar the brown grass waves,

  And sighs above them, “Alas for Glory!”