We mourn not that a hero’s life Thus in its ardent prime should close; Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, But died midst conquer’d foes! Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame In that last moment cheer’d thee not) Left Glory’s isle another name, That ne’er may be forgot: And many a tale of triumph won Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear, And long may England mourn a son _Without reproach or fear_. [58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”--_History of Europe_, vol. x. p. 743. The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--_Edinr. An. Regist._ 1815, p. 356. TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H--Y E--LL--S, WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. “Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”--Ossian. Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d On England’s proudest battle-field? For him, the lion-heart, who died In victory’s full resistless tide? Oh, mourn him not! By deeds like his that field was won, And Fate could yield to Valour’s son No brighter lot. He heard his band’s exulting cry, He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly; And envied be his death of fame! It shed a sunbeam o’er his name That nought shall dim: No cloud obscured his glory’s day, It saw no twilight of decay. Weep not for him! And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan, A hero claims far loftier tone! Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell In that dread hour, When England, midst the battle-storm-- The avenging angel--rear’d her form In tenfold power.