He would have felt his proud heart burn the while,
Have dar'd, perhaps, to rush among the brave,
Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory—of a smile.
And 'tis most true, while Time's relentless hand,
With sickly grasp drags others to the tomb,
The Soldier scorns to wait the dull command,
But springs impatient to a nobler doom.
Tho' on the plain he lies, outstretch'd, and pale,
Without one friend his steadfast eyes to close,
Yet on his honour'd corse shall many a gale,