The Chieftain's Son

Yes, it is ours!--the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!--in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame--
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!--from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long; I had but him--but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.

And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me?
And is there but for stately youth a grave?

Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?
Thou wert so full of life and joy,
I had not dreamt of this--that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;
How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die,
With all thy young renown!
--Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high,
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.