Wrapp’d in the garments of the grave, the corselet laid aside,
Still with Bellona’s step she treads, through all her woes descried.
As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke
Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke:
The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamed
In war, when o’er her burnished arms the long rich tresses streamed,
She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho’ pale as marble stone;
’Twas not with fear, for from her lips escaped no sigh nor groan;
But she, her country’s saviour, thus to render up her breath—
That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death!