Literary Gazette, 1st March 1823, Page 139
An Old Man standing by the dead body of a Youth [1]
I am too proud by far to weep,
Though earth had nought so dear
As was the Soldier Youth to me
Now sleeping on that bier.
It were a stain upon his fame
Would do his laurel crown a shame,
To shed one single tear.
It was a blessed lot to die
In battle, and for liberty!
He was my first, my only child,
And when my race was run,
I was so proud to send him forth
To do as I had done.
It was his last, his only field:
They brought him back upon his shield,
But victory was won.
I cannot weep when I recall
Thy land has cause to bless thy fall.
When others tell their children all
The fame that warriors win,
I must sit silent, and but think
On what my child had been.
It is a father's joy to see
The young eyes glow exultingly
When warlike tales begin;
And yet I know no living one
I would change for my sleeping Son.[2]
