Which warded off Misfortune's stings and darts;
Mild gentle Pity sought the hero's bed,
And smoothed the pillow for his aching head,
His last hard fight with Death was just the same
As all his others — showed unflinching game;
Till Nature, who had backed him, went up to him,
(Seeing all chance was gone), and kindly drew him.
And now let's rear a tablet o'er his grave,
To show how Englishmen respect the brave,
No costly marble, nor letter-gilded stone—
Leave such distinction to the rich alone!
Let some plain slab record his age and name,
And leave the rest to History and Fame.
Monody on Grace Darling.
'Twere impious to weep, the gentle maiden dead:
Let not one tear of selfish love be shed,
Nor dare repine that Providence denies
A longer absence from her native skies.
It was a mighty mission, which complete,
Her happy spirit takes its well-earned seat
At His right hand, who practises alone
A more extended mercy than her own.
Happy thy lot, dear Grace, for whom it was decreed,
To crowd a life of virtue into one immortal deed.
