Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head, The least a death to nature.
Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death. It dreams a rest, if not more deep, More grateful than this marble sleep; It hears a voice within it tell: Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well. 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, But 'tis not what our youth desires.
The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death, Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath.