Richard Dabney (1787?–1825)

WHEN the dark shades of death dim the warrior’s eyes,

When the warrior’s spirit from its martial form flies,

The proud rites of pomp are perform’d at his grave,

And the pageants of splendour o’er its cold inmate wave;

Though that warrior’s deeds were for tyrants perform’d,

And no thoughts of virtue that warrior’s breast warm’d,

Though the roll of his fame is the record of death,

And the tears of the widow are wet on his wreath.

What then are the rites that are due to be paid

To the virtuous man’s tomb, and the brave warrior’s shade?

To him, who was firm to his country’s love?

To him, whom no might, from stern Virtue could move?

Be his requiem, the sigh of the wretched bereft;

Be his pageants, the tears of the friends he has left;

Such tears, as were late, with impassion’d grief, shed

On the grave that encloses our Carrington, dead.