Classic Poem

on the Death of a Friend, Killed in a Duel.

Oh had he died in the field of the brave,
With the halo of glory encircling his brow!
Tho' then we would weep o'er his premature grave,
Yet not tears of such anguish as fall for him now.
For the sigh that is breathed o'er the warrior's bier,
Is a tribute of sorrow commingled with pride;
And the eye of affection, while wet with a tear,
Beams bright at the thought, " for his country he died! "

To the spot where the forms of the valiant recline,
In the thrill of emotion what numbers repair!
And recounting their deeds, as they sadly repine,
Catch the spirit that burn'd in the dust that lies there!

But alas! to thy grave we in secret must go,
When the mantle of night has o'ershadow'd the scene;
And while to thy memory the burning tears flow,
We are doom'd to lament that thou ever hast been!

Poor victim of Honour! (how false is the name!)
Thy nature was noble, thy heart was sincere;
But the breath of foul slander had sullied thy fame —
And friendship now bitterly mourns o'er thee here!
Oh! hadst thou died in the field of the brave,
With the rich wreath of glory encircling thy brow,
Tho' then we would weep o'er thy premature grave,
Yet not tears of such anguish as fall for thee now!