Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,
That blossomed with good actions, brief but whole.
The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached with reverent feet the hero’s lonely grave.
No man of God might say the burial rite
Above the rebel, thus declared the foe
That blanched before him in the deadly fight.
But woman’s voice, with accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos—read
Over his hallowed dust the ritual of the dead.