Classic Poem

Stranger, though here no laurel wave,
Here sleeps the bravest of the brave:
And never earth saw obsequies
Like his who in this green turf lies.
The might of nations rushing here
Beheld him close his high career;
The sound in which he long'd to die,
Rose mingled with his dying cry;
Earth shook, the heavens were wrapt in gloom,
The hour that laid him in the tomb;
And the world heard, from shore to shore,
The shout that told, the rite was o'er.

The forms that stood the grave beside
Were France and England's warrior-pride!
The gale that caught his dying sigh
Thunder'd with England's victory!
And the last shout the heavens that tore
Was France's blood-extinguish'd roar!