And lo! o'er hapless ANDRE'S tomb Mild victim of his soft despair! Whose soul in Life's exulting bloom Deem'd not the Life deserv'd a care, O'er the cold earth his relicks prest Lo! BRITAIN'S drooping Legions rest; For him the blades they sternly grasp, appear Dim'd with a rising sigh, and sullied with a tear.
While SEWARD sweeps her plaintive strings, While pensive round his sable shrine A radiant zone she graceful flings, Where full emblaz'd his virtues shine, The mournful Loves that tremble nigh Shall catch her warm melodious sigh, And drink the precious thrilling drops that flow From Pity's hov'ring soul, that pants dissolv'd in woe.
