Thy course must be where palms are won:
Where banners wave, and falchions glare,
Son of the mighty! be thou there!
Think on the glorious names that shine
Along thy sire’s majestic line;
Oh, last of that illustrious race!
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace!
Well, well I know each grief, each pain,
Thy spirit nobly could sustain;
E’en I unshrinking see them near,