Slowly passed the sad procession
By the purple bed;
Every soldier in succession
Thro' that tent was led.
All beheld their monarch's face—
Pale and beautiful—reclining,
There the conqueror lay,
From his radiant eyes the shining
Had not passed away.
There he watched them from his place—
His silver-shielded warriors,
His warriors of the world!
Still he was a king in seeming,
For he wore his crown;
And his sunny hair was streaming
His white forehead down.
Glorious was that failing head!
Still his golden baldric bound him,
Where his sword was hung;
Bright his arms were scattered round him,
And his glance still clung
To the warriors by his bed—
The silver-shielded warriors,
The warriors of the world!
Pale and motionless he rested,
Like a statue white and cold,
With his royal state invested;
For the purple and the gold
In his latest hour he wore.
But the eye and breath are failing,
And the mighty Soul has fled**!
Lift ye up the loud bewailing,
For a wide world mourns the Dead;
And they have a Chief no more—
The silver-shielded warriors,
The warriors of the world!
L. E. L.
