Iv monologue — Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems

O thou, Calliope, the heroes tell, Who, bright with honour and with glory, fell; 50 While Retrospection’s sweetly pensive tear, Moistens the bays that blossom round their bier. For them no friend can soothe the quiv’ring breath, And give the last sad offices of death; For them no prayers of pitying love are giv’n-- No priest consoling points the road to heav’n; Their whit’ning bones no stately urn shall hide,-- No flatt’ring bust--no monument of pride; ’Mids’t piles of slaughter’d thousands lost, they lie, By all forsaken, unregarded die. 60 Yet each seem’d gladly to resign his breath, And hail th’ approach of honourable death: And still in death, o’er each undaunted face, Nought but the pride of heroism you’d trace;-- Each dying warrior, welt’ring on the strand, Still strain’d each nerve to grasp his broken brand.