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And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld
Deep sleep came down on ev'ry eye save mine--
"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
ON THE DEATH
SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument!
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,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.