XXII.

XXII.

“Ah! more than brother, for thy gen’rous heart Has ever shewn a more than brother’s part; Say, my beloved, can the sobbing breath, The ling’ring tear, put off the stroke of death? The hand of destiny has fix’d my doom, By heav’n allotted to a warrior’s tomb. 360 Yet still my words in prophecy may say, Death shall not call my ev’ry part away: To late posterity, recording fame Shall tell the triumphs that adorn my name. Check then, O chosen of my soul, the tear Which mourns my path to Honour’s proudest bier; Accept a short, a last farewell, ere death Has chill’d my tongue, or claim’d my fleeting breath.” ‘Hold!’ cried the youth; but thus the chief pursued, While with fond eyes, his dearer self he view’d: 370 “Back to my wife, her lovely image bear, Torn from that heart which only beats for her. Ah! check the orphan’s tear, the widow’s sigh, Tell them, the lot of mortals is to die!”