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The hero hath his fame, 'Tis blazoned on his tomb, But earth withholds her glad acclaim, And frowns in silent gloom:— His footsteps o'er her breast, Were like the Simoom's blast, And death's wild ravages attest Where'er his chariot past.

By him her harvests sank, Her famish'd flocks were slain, And from the fount where thousands drank Came gushing blood like rain, For him no mournful sigh From vale or grave shall swell, But flowers, exulting left their eye, Where the proud spoiler fell.