Classic Poem

I passed by the mound on the cold airy down,
And I, lingering, looked as I passed,
On the lonely green bed of the man of renown,
And I gave a soft sigh to the blast.

For I thought on the day when his heart was yet warm,
And the weapon was bright in his hand,
When he strove with the Roman, whose steel-covered arm
Bore a banner to plant in this land.

But now he is lost, and we know not his name,
And his glory and strength are but dust,
And the sword that he drew in the day of his fame
Is devoured by the steelbiting rust.

And the bard of his glory no more shall be seen,
For the voice and the harp are all still,
And nothing is left us to tell he has been,
But this mound on the lonely green hill.

And where are the warriors that rushed at his word
To hot strife in the foe-covered field?
And where are the war-horse, the car, and the sword,
The arrow, the dart, and the shield?

All faded away like a fair evening scene,
That is lost as the night cometh on,
And steals from the world all its blue and its green,
They are gone—they for ever are gone.