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MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.
157
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:—
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 thro' the days of thy silvery hair,
To win thee but this at last?
