Like good men, who, expiring, bless
The Power that calls them, all confess
Your brightest hour your last.
And now the Spearman watchful stands!
The five-pronged grainse, which arms his hands,
Your scales is doomed to gore;
The lead will sink, and soon on high,
Borne from the deep, perforce you’ll fly,
Nor e’er regain it more.
Weep, Beauty, weep! those vivid dyes,