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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?
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep
Deep for the dead the grief must be
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.