Between the Battles

Let us bury him here,
Where the maples are red !
He is dead,
And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year.
Where the hillside is sheer,
Let it echo our tread
Who he led ;
Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear.
Ere he died, they had fled ;
Yet they heard his last cheer
Ringing clear, —
When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead.

Break his sword and his spear !
Let this last prayer be said
By the bed
We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear : —

‘O Lord God, by the red
Sullen end of the year
That is here,
We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead ! '