Chaplets of praise above his body flung;
And words fell on the living, listening ear,
The dead might well awaken but to hear.
The flags that he had captured, draped in gloom,
Before him waved—he found them at his tomb;
Sweet flowers, the freshest beauties of a day,
Made a fair garden round the hero's clay;
Great monuments wrote solemnly on high
His glory o'er the blue page of the sky;
And epitaphs, beneath the sparkling name,