By a Mountain-Stream at Rest

By a mountain-stream at rest,
We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
A banner clasp’d in dying:
Dark and still
Was every hill,
And the winds of night were sighing.

Last of his noble race
To a lonely bed we bore him--
’Twas a green, still, solemn place.
Where the mountain-heath waves o’er him,
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.

Yet, from festive hall and lay
Our sad thoughts oft are flying
To those dark hills far away,
Where in death we found him lying;
On his breast
A banner press’d,
And the night-wind o’er him sighing.