Oh, love! cried the fair, I less mourn for my doom,
Than for the dear youth who now weeps o'er my tomb;
For soon will his ashes, commingled with mine,
Seal vows, so oft plighted, at constancy's shrine.
Alas! quoth the sire, at this moment I see
My wife and my children lamenting for me;
The thought of their sorrow's despair to my soul;
May heaven, in pity, their anguish console!
And what is their grief, pray?—the hero replied;
What are you?—a poor pitiful ghost by my side.
From the north frozen desert, to Africa's sands,
Unrivall'd my name crown'd with victory stands.
Who is there on earth, whose presumption dares claim
A glory like mine, in the annals of fame?
I dare! said the poet; oh! ever will bloom,
The justly gain'd laurels that twine round my tomb:
