XLV.
But mourn the brave who nobly fighting fell
Upon Pyrene’s mountains, mourn the brave
Whose breasts were pierced, where strove those bosoms well,
And, ah, too oft have found not e’en a grave!
For o’er those pathless solitudes the wave
Of War hath rolled, and ’mid those regions vast
Full many a wounded man, with none to save,
Hath sighed his aidless death-groan to the blast,