And lives there then so cold a heart, So lost to honour's generous glow, Thus to assume the scoffer's part, And tear the wreath from Valour's brow?
Pretend to feel Iberia's fate, Her noble gallant sons deplore, Who die to save an injur'd state, Then say they sink to rise no more!
That Albion's sons, who bravely fall, Supporting all that's dear on earth, Sink like the base perfidious Gaul, Unknown their acts, unprais'd their worth!
No, Byron, no! still Britain dwells On sons so lov'd, so justly dear; A grateful Nation loudly tells Their deeds, and mourns around their bier.
And long shall British matrons weep, And British virgins long deplore, Those who now freed from sorrow sleep, Still present, tho' beheld no more. A. H.
