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