The Washerwoman's Grave

The hero ne'er forgot the meal she gave, —
My tale is of a thousand years ago, —
And every woodsman knows the time-worn grave,
Though naught remains of dynasties save the river's ceaseless flow.
With votive flower the traveller is seen.
The while the grief-bird trills his mournful lays;
Around, the grass of spring grows wildly green
Where footprints of the "nobleman" were left in bygone days.