* * * *
No sculptured trophy rose, to deck his honoured head,
Or monumental urn, to mark the Mighty Dead;
No lettered scroll to point the pilgrim soldier’s way,—
The musing foe to greet,
And guide his wandering feet
To where the Warrior lay.
But o’er his loved remains were choicest honours shed,
Tears such as Heroes weep bedewed his lowly bed;
A deep responsive sigh from Albion’s woe-struck Isle