Shrin'd, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth,
Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth.
What tho' to mark where sleeps heroic dust,
No sculptur'd trophy rise, or breathing bust,
Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run,
A prouder sepulchre—the field ye won!
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name,
Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame;
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown,
That ask no urn to blazon their renown.
There shall the Bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead;
Revere each tree, whose sheltering branches wave
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave;
Pause o'er each Warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear
In every breeze, some name to glory dear,
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
