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E hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave, And wept as nations weep their cherished dead, With bitter, but proud tears, and o’er his head The eternal flowers whose root is in the grave, The flowers of Fame, are beautiful and green; And by his grave’s side pilgrim feet have been, And blessings, pure as men to martyrs give, Have there been breathed by those he died to save.— Pride of his country’s banded chivalry, His fame their hope, his name their battle-cry; He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, He died as fathers wish their sons to die.
 * If on the grief-worn cheek the hues of bliss,

Which fade when all we love is in the tomb, Could ever know on earth a second bloom, The memory of a gallant death like his Would call them into being; but the few, Who as their friend, their brother, or their son, His kind warm heart and gentle spirit knew,