BRAVE spirit! mourned with fond regret,
Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon,
Oh! who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon?
Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind,
Which marked and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies withered on thy bier.
The soldier's death hath been thy doom,
The soldier's tear thy meed shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb
Might Fate have reared for thee.
Thou shouldst have died, O high-souled chief!
In those bright days of glory fled,
When triumph so prevailed o'er grief,
We scarce could mourn the dead.
Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior's grave—
When shall affection weep again
So proudly o'er the brave?
There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene,
Or on Vittoria's blood-red plain,
Meet had thy death-bed been.
We mourn not that a hero's life,
Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died midst conquered foes!
Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame
In that last moment cheered thee not)
Left Glory's isle another name,
That ne'er may be forgot:
And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear,
And long may England mourn a son
Without reproach or fear.