There breathes not kitten of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.
O! could I match the peerless strain,
That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain,
Or that whose milder tone
O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime,
The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime,
Raised the sepulchral moan!
Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar,
And reach thy spirit from afar.