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Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
— Charles Wolfe
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But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried.
Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light, ne’er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore.
If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
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