5. Funeral March of a Fallen Hero
Sound the trumpet, beat the drum,
Lay the purple on his breast,
Let my shuddering memories come
To salute him in his rest,
To bow down to his disgrace,
While I cover up his face.
Once he led my soul to war,
And the thunder of his cry
Went before me, fierce and far,
Calling me to triumph or die;
To his sword I owe my place,
But I cover up his face.
Scornfully he mocked my fears,
‘Raise the banner!—up and fight!
Follow me through blood and tears!’
From the darkness into light,
After him, I strove apace,
Now I cover up his face.
In his eyes I dare not gaze,
Lest I should see mirrored there
All the white and hungry blaze
Of my own eyes’ hot despair,
All my shame for his disgrace—
So I cover up his face.
In my heart he lies in state,
Purple sorrow is his pall,
Trumps of doom and drums of fate
Sound the dead-march of his fall—
On his livid brows a crown
Of withered bays and laurels brown.
At his head tall candles burn,
They are hopes that slowly die,
At his feet the brazen urn
Where my love’s best ashes lie,
At his side the broken sword
Of his own most solemn word.
Fallen hero, I would bring
Dreams to deck thine obsequies,
Lay them as an offering
On thy heart, where sorrow lies,
But ’twould spoil thy stately bed,
For, like thee, my dreams are dead.
Sound the trumpet, beat the drum,
Lay the purple on his breast,
Bow before his shame, and come
To perform each last behest,
Give him royal resting-place—
But, O cover up his face!