More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart?
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more,
Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er;
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;