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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?
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.

THE END.

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