Let us bury him here,
Where the maples are red!
He is dead,
And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year.
Where the hillside is sheer,
Let it echo our tread
Whom he led;
Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear.
Ere he died, they had fled;
Yet they heard his last cheer
Ringing clear,—
When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead.
Break his sword and his spear!
Let this last prayer be said
By the bed
We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear:
“O Lord God, by the red
Sullen end of the year
That is here,
We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead!”