The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece--she _is_ awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through _whom_
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, _why live?_
The lad of honourable death
Is here: up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out--less often sought than found--
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
_Byron._
LXXIX
AFTER CORUNNA
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
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