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"Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free, E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee: 'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes Of him who faithful to his country dies; Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er, And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar: Be thine existence with a blighted name, Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's fame!"

The glow hath vanish'd from his cheek—his eye Hath lost that beam of parting energy; Frozen and fix'd it seems—his brow is chill; One struggle more, that noble heart is still. Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, Were thy last pangs, ere Nature found repose, More keen, more bitter, than th' envenom'd dart, Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart? Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er; But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.