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 crown’d 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 leapt 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 may’st 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 flow’d:
O 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 through the days of thy silvery hair
To win thee but this at last?