Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 40 1834.pdf/19



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 lowly bed we bore him; 'Tis a deep green, solemn place, Where the mountain heath waves o'er him;— Woods alone There make moan, Rushing streams deplore him.

Yet from festal 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 prest, And the night-wind o'er him sighing.