Th’ o’ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way:—
“And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave,
With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave?
What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land?
I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band!
“My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes that in your halls was nursed—
That follow’d you to many a fight, where flash’d your sabres first—
That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart:—
Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?
“It shall not be! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still,