Sires, who sleep in glory's bed,
Sires, whose blood for us was shed,
Taught us, when our knee we bend,
With the prayer thy name to blend:
Shall we e'er such charge forget?
No!—"Nous aimons La Fayette."
When our blooming cheeks shall fade,
Pale with time, or sorrow's shade,
When our clustering tresses fair
Frosts of wintry age shall wear,
E'en till Memory's sun be set,
"Nous vous aimons La Fayette."
EPITAPH
ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF JOHN VISCOMTI, LORD OF MILAN,
WHO DIED IN 1354.
Traveller! slow pausing on thy thoughtful way,
Would'st thou the amount of human good survey,
The weight of honour, and the worth of gold?
Learn what I was,—and what I am, behold.
—Treasures were mine, immense as man's desires,
Cities superb, and domes where pomp retires.
Rome, queen of earth, confess'd my rising fame,
And all Italia trembled at my name.
—Yet what avails it now? I sleep in clay,
To stone a prisoner, and of worms the prey.
