Page:National Lyrics.pdf/285



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 lonely bed we bore him; 'Twas a green, still, solemn place Where the mountain heath waves o'er him. Woods alone Seem to moan, Wild streams to deplore him.