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11. “ Is man more just than God? Is man more pure Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! The moth survives you, and are ye more just? Things of a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light !"
There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O’er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue : The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hushed, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose ?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
When cease to hear thy cherished name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more; ; Deep for the dead the grief must be
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.