Where the broad level steppe lies bare
There stands a lonely mound,
Beneath a famous warrior erst
His latest honour found.

Three days the funeral feast endured,
Three days his meinie strove;
His wives the priests did offer there,
The war horse he did love.

But when at length he buried lay,
The noisy rites were o'er,
Singers foretold his fame to be,
Golden the lute he bore.

" O hero, yet thy deeds shall be
A mighty nation's boast,
Nor shall thy loudly-sounded name
Through ages all be lost.

" Nay, should thy lofty tomb be laid
Low as this barren plain,
Yet far thy fame shall ever spread,
Honoured thy dust remain. "

And see! the years have passed amain,
And centuries have ranged,
Nations to nations given place,
Countries their fall have changed.

But still that mound its head lifts high,
Where the great chief doth rest,
Nor level with the ground it lies;
Still proudly soars its crest.

But through the years his glorious name
Was lost, nor lived till now.
Who was he, and what coronets
Graced his victorious brow?

What blood was it he shed in streams,
What towns in ashes laid?
What death was it he died, and when
Was his sepulture paid?

This lonely mound doth naught reply,
The warrior is forgot,
And games no more nor songs record
His once lamented lot.

Only the wild giraffe darts by,
Bounding across the plain,
Or locusts in a fluttering swarm
Settle, then on again.

Anon the cranes from high in air,
Their goal is now in sight,
Descend, shrill wayfarers, to rest
And preen for their last flight.

And there the timid jerboa leaps
When slowly dies the day,
Or rider high on mettled steed
Takes there his headlong way.

And, as across the sky they sail,
The clouds let drop their tears,
And lightly thence the passing breeze
The dust unheeded bears.