HIS comrades bore him to the grave,
In column moving slow,
With pomp their faithful subjects gave
To monarchs long ago.
By trees that glimmered bronze and red,
Edging the mountain road,
Passing along with martial tread,
Unto his last abode.
For such a grave a king might pine,
High on a lonely hill,
Where grey trees make a solemn shrine,
The wind’s loud voices fill.
Where rises oft the newborn cloud,
The eagle lingers near,
And winter flings an ermine shroud,
Upon the lonely bier.
There scarlet vestures of the morn
Droop from the summer sky,
And sunset’s purple raiment torn,
When days, like Cæsar, die.
And chiming with the river’s song,
Unending deep and slow,
The birds oft sing in joyous throng,
Within the vale below.
He careth not—with silent kings,
And Beauty, fain of rest
He sleeps while earth his mother sings,
And holds him to her breast.
© Frank S. Williamson