WEEP'ST thou for him, whose doom was sealed
On England’s proudest battle-field?
For him, the lion-heart, who died
In victory’s full, resistless tide?
Oh! mourn him not!
By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour's son
No brighter lot.
He heard his band's exulting cry,
He saw the vanquished eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame,
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name,
That nought shall dim—
No cloud obscured his glory's day,
It saw no twilight of decay—
Weep not for him!
And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh! proudly should the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell
In that dread hour,
When England, midst the battle-storm,
Th' avenging angel—reared her form
In tenfold power.
Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star,
The Victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has owned thy fame:
And oh! like his approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior's name?