Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/247



the muffled drum rolled on the air, Warriors with stately step were there; On every arm was the black crape bound, Every carbine was turned to the ground: Solemn the sound of their measured tread, A silent and slow they followed the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear, There were white plumes waving over the bier: Helmet and sword were laid on the pall, For it was a soldier's funeral.