O happy Tithon! if thou know'st thy hap,
And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,
Then need'st thou not-which ah! I grieve to grant-
Repine at Jove, lull'd in his leman's lap: ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.