Orlando, thou wilt tell them, that my death
Was such as well became a hero's child!"
V.
How precious is the memory of those
Who slumber in the tomb! their lightest word
And look is then recall'd, and hallowed
As tender relics love had left behind—
Sweet but sad treasures! ah, how dear the thought
Which dwells on those departed; when the heart
Beats quick with fond reflections, and the worth,
The praise of those gone to their silent sleep,
Comes like a healing balm to sorrow's wound.
Most soothing was it to the father's grief
To hear how gloriously his Ernest fell;
Still would he ask Orlando of the fields
Which they had fought together; and the tale,
Tho' often told, was sweet unto his ear,
As the blithe peal, that tells the traveller,
