"Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, and bravely die?"
Yes, sure there is, and Heav'n, with loud acclaim,
On orient stars shall 'grave thy deathless name.
Each patriot chief now hails thy glorious ghost,
And bids thee welcome to th'Elysian coast.
What tho' no laurell'd urn thy bones inshrine?
Unfading wreaths shall round thy temples twine.
What boots it, then, unmanly tears to shed,
Or mourn for thee as for the vulgar dead?
Britannia cries, "My sons, restrain your woe;
Let Andre's name each gen'rous bosom warm,
String every nerve, prompt ev'ry hand to arm,
'Till the fell foes bewail their guilty deed,
And slaughter'd thousands round their victim bleed!"