Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall:

So many relics of a frail love lost,

So many tokens dear 35

Of endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trump

Gives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now,

Our hearts yet beating high

To that victorious lay, 40

Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirge

Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust