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ON THE DEATH OF
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hushed, their name the only sound;
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
Grows hushed, their name the only sound;
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
