XXXIV.
I would not check the tender sigh,
Nor chide the pious tear,
That heaves the heart and dims the eye
For friend or kinsman dear;
Ev’n when their honoured reliques lie
On victory’s proudest bier;
But I would say, for those that die
In honour’s high career,
For those in glory’s grave who sleep,
Weep fondly, but, exulting, weep!
More freshly from the untimely tomb
Renown’s eternal laurels bloom
With sullen cypress twined.
Fortune is fickle and unsure,
And worth and fame to be secure
Must be in death enshrin’d!