Spun are thy spicy yarns, thy tongue is hush’d;
Stripped are the laurels bright that girt thy brow
And dust to dust is all that waits thee now.
Yet long the Fancy’s tears thy grave shall wet,
Star of the Light Weights, all-accomplished Pet!
For thy bold spirit soared on eagle’s wing,
And shed a halo round the fighting Ring—
Acknowledged there the bravest and the best,
For craven fear ne’er harboured in thy breast;
Conquest, proud conquest, was thine only aim,