Ballad—in Castles in the Air

The martial pomp, the mournful train Bespeak some honoured hero slain; The obsequies demote him brave; Hark! the volley o'er his grave: The awful knell sounds low and lorn, Yet cease ye kindred brave to mourn. The plaintive fife, and muffled drum, The man may summon to his silent home; The soldier lives!—his deeds to trace, Behold the Seraph Glory place An ever-living laurel round his sacred tomb.

Nor deem it hard, ye thoughtless gay, Short's man's longest earthly stay; Our little hour of life we try, And then depart:—we're born to die. Then lose no moment dear to fame, They longest live who live in name. The plaintive fife, &c.