And fallen on tyrant's startled souls,
Like coming fate's prophetic word.
Yet, shame upon this senseless age,
Which blindly worships guilty gold,
No votive marble shows the tomb,
Whose vault received his ashes cold.
Alas! that this should be our shame!
For which even yet our eyes shall weep;
Nought points the world's admiring eye,
To where its friend's sad relics sleep.