With all thy laurels round thy honoured tomb.
Thine is no pile of unrecording stone—
Pale marble column or tall pyramid,
That vainly robs oblivion of its prey:
Thy name lives on each lip—thy monuments
Are treasures fondly kept midst precious things,
Sought out in every land which the sun warms
To nobler thoughts—thine are perennial wreaths
Of trophies yet surviving, when the fame
Of fields that rang through Europe, and made pale