On Lord Nelson's Death

T HE wreaths of Conquest on their Champion's head,
Gustavus breath'd his last on Glory's bed;
The God of Battles was the Hero's Guide,
Embalm'd his name, and blest him when he died.
As bright in Council as in War, Turenne ,
Pre-eminent above the race of men,
The cherish'd Idol of his Country, fell;
A Nation's anguish rung the Hero's knell.
The adverse Legions — an embattled Host —
Mourn'd the sublime example they had lost;
Were proud its glowing lustre to endear,
And grac'd their Model with a Rival's tear.
Congenial was the deathless Honour's prize,
That clos'd in Fame an English Warrior's eyes,
When gallant Wolfe the shout of Conquest heard,
Fell as he liv'd — and rais'd the parting word.
But Nelson — who shall breathe to air the rest,
Imprison'd in the agonizing breast?
By not a whisper'd Muse it can be sung;
It fills the pensive heart — and chains the tongue.
Bath'd is the Hero's laurel in its tears,
And such a Victory defeat appears.
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