Lie down and rest—the fight is done.
Thy comrades to the camp retire;
Gaze not so earnestly upon
The far gleam of the beacon fire.

Listen not to the wind-borne sounds
Of music and of soldiers' cheer;
Thou canst not go—unnumbered wounds
Exhaust thy life and hold thee here.

Had that hand power to raise the sword,
Which since this morn laid hundreds low;
Had that tongue strength to speak the word
That urged thy followers on the foe:

Were that warm blood within thy veins,
Which now upon the earth is flowing,
Splashing its sod with crimson stains,
Reddening the pale heath round thee growing;

Then, Rodric, thou might'st still be turning
With eager eye and anxious breast
To where those signal-lights are burning—
To where thy monarch's legions rest.

But, never more! Look up and see
The twilight fading from the skies:
That last dim beam that sets for thee,
Rodric, for thee shall never rise!