On the Death of General Ross

Give them the shadow of the cypress bough!
The chief who came our prowess to defy,
Who came, to bind fresh laurels on his brow,
Who came, too sure to conquer not to die:--
Low lies the chief upon th' unconscious plain,
The laurels wither, and no wreathes remain.

To kindle up your torch, ambition's flame
Heroic chief, had all its flames supplied;
A monarch's smiles, a never-dying name,
The historian's subject, and the soldier's pride;
Your native land with splendid trophies hung;
Joy sparkling in the eye, and praise from every tongue.

Deceived how much! a name alone remains,
Not yet complete in fame, nor ripe in years;--
What is the applause such thirst of glory gains,
Which not the grave regards or valor hears:
In war's wild tumult, for a name he died,
He fell, the victim of a monarch's pride.

A country's rights, or freedom to defend
May sooth the anguish of a dying hour,
A ravaged land to succor or befriend,
To brave the efforts of a tyrant's power:
These may console, when mad ambition's train
Fade from the view, or sooth the soul in vain.