1   Montgomery! true, the common lot      Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;   Yet some shall never be forgot,      Some shall exist beyond the grave. 2   “Unknown the region of his birth,”      The hero rolls the tide of war;   Yet not unknown his martial worth,      Which glares a meteor from afar. 3   His joy or grief; his weal or woe,      Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;   Yet nations now unborn will know      The record of his deathless name. 4   The patriot’s and the poet’s frame      Must share the common tomb of all:   Their glory will not sleep the same;      That will arise, though empires fall. 5   The lustre of a Beauty’s eye      Assumes the ghastly stare of death;   The fair, the brave, the good must die,      And sink the yawning grave beneath. 6   Once more the speaking eye revive,      Still beaming through the lover’s strain;   For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:      She died, but ne’er will die again. 7   The rolling seasons pass away,      And Time, untiring, waves his wing;   Whilst honour’s laurel ne’er decay,      But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 8   All, all must sleep in grim repose,      Collected in the silent tomb;   The old and young, with friends and foes,      Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume. 9   The mouldering marble lasts its day,      Yet falls at length on useless fane;   To ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,      The wrecks of pillar’d pride remain. 10   What, though the sculpture he destroy’d,      From dark oblivion meant to ward;   A bright renown shall be enjoy’d      By those whose virtues claim reward. 11   Then do not say the common lot      Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;   Some few who ne’er will be forgot      Shall burst the bondage of the grave.