Montgomery! true, the common lot
  Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
  Some shall exist beyond the grave.

“Unknown the region of his birth,”
  The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
  Which glares a meteor from afar.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
  Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
  The record of his deathless name.

The Patriot’s and the Poet’s frame
  Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
  ‘That’ will arise, though Empires fall.

The lustre of a Beauty’s eye
  Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
  And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more, the speaking eye revives,
  Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
  She died, but ne’er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,
  And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurels ne’er decay,
  But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
  Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
  Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
  Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
  The wrecks of pillar’d Pride remain.

What, though the sculpture be destroy’d,
  From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy’d,
  By those, whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot
  Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
  Shall burst the ******* of the grave.