In vain the feather'd warblers soar,
Mid floods of many colour'd light;
I hear them not, but still deplore
The eye of Beauty quench'd in night.
How in the battle flam'd his crest,
Refulgent as the morning star:
But ruthless murder pierc'd that breast,
Which met unhurt the storm of war.
My Love, "how beautiful, how brave;"
Still, still, her oaths thy Constance keeps;