Classic Poem

There swept adown that dreary glen
A wilder sound than mountain wind:
The thrilling shouts of fighting men
With something sadder far behind.

The thrilling shouts they died away
Before the night came greyly down;
But closed not with the closing day
The choking sob, the tortured moan.

Down in a hollow sunk in shade
Where dark heath waved in secret gloom,
A weary bleeding form was laid
Waiting the death that was to come.