Or sculptur'd stone, or gilded minaret;
But let a herald go before my bier,
Bearing on point of lance the robe I wear.
Shouting aloud, 'Behold what now remains
Of the proud conqueror of Syria's plains,
Who bow'd the Persian, made the Christian feel
The deadly sharpness of the Moslem steel;
But of his conquests, riches, honours, might,
Naught sleeps with him in death's unbroken night,
Save this poor robe.'"