And thou, my friend!—since unavailing woe[dk] [107] [19.B.]

Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain—

Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,

Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain:

But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain,

By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,

And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,

While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest!

What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?