Written on a Foreigner's Visiting the Grave of a Swiss Gentleman, Buried Among the Descendents of Sir William Wallace, Guardian of Scotland in the Thirteenth Century.

Our regal seat to Edward fallen a prey,
Our Chief's insulted corse his victim lay;
Our ruin'd land no monument could raise;
Yet grateful bards still sung his heart-felt praise;
Long ages hence her hero still she'll mourn
Still her brave sons with emulation burn.
His spirit guarding still our native place,
Proclaims this mandate to his latest race:
"Let sacred truth bid living fame be thine;
"Ne'er trust for honour to a sculptur'd shrine.
"Those modest merits marbles ne'er impart,
"Love writes them deepest on the human heart."

Thus mid thy race did their lov'd Henry dwell,
Whose dust shall mix thy memory with Tell*;
Truth, honour, spirit, animate that form,
Which beauty, grace, and symmetry adorn.
Here that rich blossom dropp'd, scarce fairly bloom,
The friend, the husband, father we bemoan!
Wail by the grave a mother's cheerless throes,
And share a widow's agonizing woes!

Dear youth, thy name to latest time descends,
Where gentle virtues made mankind thy friends.
From no vain marble need you borrow fame;
Truth, love and friendship, here embalm thy name;
A parent's silver hairs bestrew thy shrine;
Her griefs were mortal, but her joys sublime:
In tears we mourn the body laid to rest;
She halls thy spotless soul 'mid angels blest.

*a famous Swiss chief.

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