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.
O list not to the wind-born sounds,
Of music and of soldiers' cheer;
Thou canst not go—remember wounds
Exhaust thy life and hold thee here.
Had that hand power to raise the sword
Which since this morn laid many 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,
Redding the pale heath round thee growing;
Then Roderic, thou mightst still be turning
With eager eye and anxious breast
To where those signal lights are burning,
To where thy war-worn comrades rest.