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 fail.

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 revive, 
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 laurel ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose, 
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old and 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 he destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to ward;
A bright renown shall he 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 bondage of the grave.