From carnag'd fields bedrench'd with gore,
How long must Pity shrink with pain;
Turn, shuddering pale, from shore to shore,
And weep her patriot heroes slain!

Touch'd at her tears that streaming flow
(Just tribute to the good and brave)
Britannia, wrapt in sable woe,
Bend o'er her Abercromby's grave.

'And could not age,' she sorrowing cries,
'From blood protect thy final doom?
Gild thy last eve with milder skies,
And lay thee gently in the tomb?

Rock'd in the cradle of alarms,
Nurs'd in the school where glory's won,
Rejoicing in the din of arms,
Soon Valour bail'd her darling son:

Foresaw the bright, the guiding beam
That led to Honour's splendid goal;
Saw, flash'd round Pompey's Pillar, gleam
The parting light'nings of his soul!

Yet, in the warrior's dauntless breast
Fond Hope with mellowing pencil drew;
Pourtray'd the scene when laurel'd rest,
In peace, enjoys the fav'rite few!

Vain dream! - with war's indignant frown
Fame twin'd the cypress with the bay;
'Be this,' she cried, 'the laurel crown
To deck my hero's parting day!

Sunk in the shade of still repose,
Unhonour'd dropp the valiant dead ;
Bright as his day shall beam the close
He dies in Glory's patriot bed!'

'He lives! Britannia warm replies,
As high the trophied urn she rears;
'He lives in Virtue's bursting sighs,
His Country's Praise! - his Country's Tears!'