"On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave. The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle; He heeds not, he hears not; he's free from all pain. He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle; No sound can awake him to glory again!"