Who envies not the glory of the brave!
The sunshine of their fame—their laurell'd grave!
Theirs is the memory of afterlight;
Theirs is a brightness 'mid oblivion's night:
Time whelms the many with eternal gloom,
But sheds fresh honours on the heros' tomb.
In life, they move not with the common throng,
To them the nobler heights of fame belong;
Each heart admires, each lip is warm with praise;
Each hand would weave the victor-chieftain's bays.
Warrior, this praise is thine! but there will be
A purer, holier, dearer mead for thee:
Thine was the arm that stopp'd the destin'd blow,
And spar'd the triumph of a fallen foe.
The wreath that valour's deeds must gain is bright—
But its chief lustre flows from mercy's light.