I saw the hoary warrior chief,
Whose sternly proud, but blighted form
Proclaimed him worn with bitter grief,
An oak amid the pelting storm.
Of those whose crimson tide embrued
The fields where Albion's glory fell;
Of those who oft undaunted stood,
When cannons pealed the hero's knell--
He was the last--the only head
Was his, that waved with wintry bloom;
Surviving all, for all had sped;
They slept in honour's laurelled tomb.
He gazed--alas! he gazed in vain,
To meet the comrades of his toil;
Compatriots on the battle plain,
Companions in the glorious spoil.
All, all around was sad and drear,
And nought could grief of years beguile;
For him condolence had no tear;
For him affection wore no smile.
I saw--and lo, the old man slept;
The war-worn veteran joined the brave,
And none upon his ashes wept:
Forgotten was the soldier's grave.
