Classic Poem

From carnaged fields bedrenched with gore,
How long must Pity shrink with pain;
Turn, shuddering pale, from shore to shore
And weep her patriot heroes slain;

Touched at her tears that streaming flow,
(Just tribute to the good and brave)
B RITANNIA , wrapt in sable woe,
Bends o'er her A BERCROMBY'S grave.

" And could not age," she sorrowing cries,
" From blood protect thy final doom!
Gild thy last eve with milder skies,
And lay thee gently in the tomb?"

Rocked in the cradle of alarms,
Nursed in the school where glory's won,
Rejoicing in the din of arms,
Soon Valour hailed her darling son:

Foresaw the bright, the guiding beam
That led to Honour's splendid goal;
Saw, flashed round P OMPEY'S Pillar , gleam
The parting light'nings of his soul!

Yet, in the warrior's dauntless breast,
Fond Hope with mellowing pencil drew;
Pourtrayed the scene, when laurel'd rest,
In peace, enjoys the fav'rite few! —

Vain dream! — with War's indignant frown
Fame twined the cypress with the bay; —
" Be this ," she cried, " the laurel crown
To deck my hero's parting day!

Sunk in the shade of still repose,
Unhonoured drop the valiant dead! —
Bright as his day shall beam the close —
He dies in glory's patriot bed!"

" He lives! " B RITANNIA warm replies,
As high the trophied urn she rears;
" He lives in V IRTUE'S bursting sighs,
His C OUNTRY'S PRAISE ! — his C OUNTRY'S TEARS !