No foe would e’er have faced his steel
Nor learnt what ’tis the vanquished feel.
Oh child of many tears, if fate
Shall not prevent your living date,
Thou art Marcellus! Lilies fair
Scatter in handfuls on his bier!
Oh let me but his herse bestrew
With flowers bright with purple hue.
Vain gift! but let it still be paid
To grace my far-off grandson’s shade.’”