He shone in the senate, the camp, and the grove,
The mirror of manhood, the darling of love.
He fought for his country, the star of the brave,
And died for it’s weal when to die was to save.
And Wisdom and Valour long over him wept,
And Beauty, for ages, strewed flowers where he slept.
And the bards of the people inwrought with their lays
The light of his glory, the sound of his praise.
But afar in the foreworld have faded their strains,
And now of his being what record remains?
Within a lone valley a tomb crumbles fast,
And the name of the Sleeper is lost in the past
Charles Harpur
