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He sleeps,—though his dear and early friend A corpse lies by him; Though the ravening vulture and screaming crow Are hovering nigh him.

He sleeps,—where blood has been pour'd like rain, Another field before him; And he sleeps as calm as his mother's eyes Were watching o'er him.

To-morrow that youthful victor's name Will be proudly given, By the trumpet's voice, and the soldier's shout, To the winds of heaven.