Classic Poem

Organ swells, the trumpets sound, The
The lamps in triumph glow;
And none of all those thousands round
Regards who sleeps below.

Those haughty eyes that tears should fill
Glance clearly, cloudlessly;
Those bounding breasts, that grief should thrill,
From thought of grief are free.

His subjects and his soldiers there
They blessed his rising bloom,
But none a single sigh can spare
To breathe above his tomb.

Comrades in arms, I've looked to mark
One shade of feeling swell,
As your feet trod above the dark
Recesses of his cell.