Classic Poem

Ay! rest thee there, thou truly gallant wight!
Beneath the boughs of thy respected tree,
Thou lord of many a long-lived dreadful fight,
Where spirits of the brave were passing free.
Thy fatal sword was sternly grasped by thee,
And waved with joy victorious o'er thy head,
'Mid hostile ranks, and foes of high degree,
Who viewed its gleam with eyes of sacred dread.
Thou once fond teeming son of song, I shed
The sympathetic tear o'er valour great;
And mourn the demon-ball that marked thee dead,
And sealed, so soon, a glorious patriot's fate. —
Oh! may the honour pile raised over thee,
Proclaim thy genuine worth till time shall cease to be.