Heard ye not moan profound,
Bursting form yon blighted mound,
Where, amid the murky air,
The wild ash waves its branches bare?
There, in dark-brown dust array'd,
M ORNO 's giant limbs are laid.
Who, like him, with grim delight,
Could front the hideous Fiend of Fight?
When the spears, as rattling hail,
Bounded from his cable mail.
See! where from the blasted bough
Hangs the helm that grac'd his brow!
See! its rusty vizor gleam
To the pale moon's blood-shot beam!
While its swinging plumage sighs
To the winds, that, mournful, rise.
Never on the listed plain
Shall his broad bulk gloom again;
Never from his meteor-eye
Shall the sons of F INGAL fly;
Never shall his cold lip taste
The honey'd scull, the rich repast;
Never bugle's mellow call
Invite him to the festal hall;
Nor his dull ear fondly dwell
On the shrill harp's silver swell.
What rose-lip'd virgins now prepare
The chaplet for his raven-hair?
Broider'd round with purple leaves,
Who the robe of honor weaves?
Crown'd by Honor, clasp'd by Love,
In vain:—his winding-sheet is wove.
But the man of days to come,
Searching for the Hero's tomb,
Hither by sad impuise led,
Shall incline his hoary head;
Aw'd to pious murmurs, breathe
Brief homage o'er the mould beneath,
Then, deeply lesson'd, turn aside
From the lone wreck of Human P RIDE .