STAUNCH at thy post, to meet life's common doom, It scarce seems death, to die as thou hast died; Thy duty done, thy truth, strength, courage, tried, And all things ripe for the fulfilling tomb! A crown would mock thy hearse's sable gloom, Whose virtues raised thee higher than a throne, Whose faults were erring Nature's, not his own,— Such be thy sentence, writ with Fame's bright plume, Amongst the good and great; for thou wast great, In thought, word, deed,—like mightiest ones of old,— Full of the honest truth, which makes men bold, Wise, pure, firm, just; the noblest Roman's state Became not more a Ruler of the free, Than thy plain life, high thoughts and matchless constancy. |