FOR fifteen hundred valiant men and tried,
These waters were as Lethe's, dark and deep
And bitter as the bitterest tears we weep;
Their high hearts rose above the swollen tide,
Fain of the foe upon the further side,
Though in death's draught their lips they needs must steep.
Since their own lives their valour might not keep,
Our tall young men drank of that cup and died.
Now are their faces hidden from the sky,
Under the trampled turf where last they trod;
Yet unforsaken sleeps that sad array;
The living hearts of all their mothers lie
Buried with them, and beat below the sod,
As their poor pulse could stir the senseless clay.