Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps

Cold, with the beast he slew, he sleeps; O'er him no filial spirit weeps; No crowds throng round, no anthem-notes ascend, To bless his coming and embalm his end; Even that he lived, is for his conqueror's tongue, By foes alone his death-song must be sung; No chronicles but theirs shall tell His mournful doom to future times; May these upon his virtues dwell, And in his fate forget his crimes.