Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/440



have waked the knight so meikle of might, They have cased his corpse in oak; There was not an eye that then was dry, There was not a tongue that spoke. The stout and the true lay stretched in view, Pale and cold as the marble stone; And the voice was still that like trumpet shrill, Had to glory led them on; And the deadly hand whose battle brand Mowed down the reeling foe, Was laid at rest on the manly breast, That never more mought glow.

With book, and bell, and waxen light, The mass for the dead is sung; Thorough the night in the turret's height, The great church-bells are rung. Oh wo! oh wo! for those that go From light of life away, Whose limbs may rest with worms unblest, In the damp and silent clay!