“In Fancy-land there is a burst of woe,
The spirit’s tribute to the fallen; see
On each scarr’d front the cloud of sorrow glow,
Bloating its sprightly shine. But what is he
For whom grief s mighty butt is broach’d so free?
Were his brows shadow’d by the awful crown,
The bishop’s mitre, or high plumery
Of the mail’d warrior? Won he his renown
On pulpit, throne, or field, whom Death hath now struck down?
“He won it in the field, where arms are none,