Jeckoyva

They made the warrior's grave beside The dashing of his native time: And there was mourning in the glen-- The strong wail of a thousand men-- O'er him thus fallen in his pride, Ere mist of age - or blight or blast Had o'er his might spirit past. They made the warrior's grave beneath The bending of the wild elm's wreath, When the dark hunter's piercing eye Had found that mountain rest on high, Where, scattered by the sharp wind's breath, Beneath the ragged cliff were thrown The strong belt and the mouldering bone. Where was the warrior's foot, when first The red sun on the mountain burst? Where -- when the sultry noon-time came On the green vales with scorching flame, And made the woodlands faint with thirst? 'Twas where the wind is keen and loud, And the gray eagle breasts the cloud. Where was the warrior's foot when night Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height? None heard the loud and sudden crash-- None saw the fallen warrior dash Down the bare rock so high and white! But he that drooped not in the chase Made on the hills his burial-place. They found him there, when the long day Of cold desertion passed away, And traces on that barren cleft Of struggling hard with death were left-- Deep marks and footprints in the clay! And they have laid this feathery helm By the dark river and green elm.