Charles Wolfe (1791 – 1823)
Irish poet.
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If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be.
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light, ne’er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Go, forget me! why should sorrow
O’er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me, and to-morrow
Brightly smile and sweetly sing!
Smile,—though I shall not be near thee;
Sing,—though I shall never hear thee!
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