Mid the flowor-wreathod tombs 1 stand Bearing lilios in my hand. Conirades ! in what soldier-gravd tSleops the bravest of the brave 't Is it he who sanie to rest With his colors round his breast t Friendship makes his tomb a shrino ; (Jarlauda veil it : ask not mine. One low grave, yon trees beneath, Bears no roses, wears no wreath ; Yet uo heart more high and warm Ever dared the battlo-storm. Xever gleamed a prouder eye Iu the front of vietory. Never ioot had firmer tread Oa the field where Hope lay dead. Than aro hid within this tomb, Where the untended grasses bloom ; And no stone, with feigned distress, Mocks the sacred loneliness. Youth and beauty, dauntless will, Dreams that lile could ne'er fuUill, Here lie buried ; here in peace Wrongs and woes have fouud release. Turning from my comrades' oyes, Kneeling where a woman lies, I strew lilies on the grave Ot the bravest of the brave.