Classic Poem

T RIUMPHANT are the tears; and Sorrow's pride
Was Britain's glory, when her Champion died;
Him still they mourn, till Conquest they forget,
And they are like the Hero they regret.
But is it not miscalculated grief,
If Reason's voice be heard for its relief?
No future death such laurels could attain,
Doom of a lingering bed's inglorious pain.
For now his brightest path is to begin;
He gave his life, a deathless wreath to win;
And left a model of Heroic worth,
To that proud Element which gave it birth;
A legacy of emulating love,
That Britain's Genius could alone improve;
In such a Death no sting is to be found,
Eternal Victory his grave has crown'd.