With loud last breaths their masters 'scape applaud,
Of whom kind force could scarce the fates defraud;
Who, for such followers lost, O, matchless mind!
At his own safety now almost repined!—
Say, royal Sir, by all your fame in arms,
Your praise in peace, and by Urania's charms,
If all your suffering's past so nearly prest,
Or pierced with half so painful grief, your breast?
Thus some diviner muse her hero forms,
Not soothed with soft delights, but tossed in storms;