Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 11 1822.pdf/2



, what avails it, though each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath, (Nor needs such care) from each cold season's breath? Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest, Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desart’s breast? Doth the sword sleep beside them?—Hath there been A sound of battle midst the silent scene.