Tell me, says Cato, where you found
My boy - and how he fell -
In front - and in his breast the wound.
I thank the gods - 'tis well.
Thus the stern Stoic sooth'd his grief,
And check'd the rising groan,
By making Honour his relief,
And common good his own.
Yet more - the terms of vital breath
He knew - and chance of war,
That youth is nowhere safe from death,
And glory courts a scar.
There let your soothing sorrow dwell
When you behold his Urn,
And as he like a Roman fell,
Do you like Romans mourn!
True, he was young, and brave, as young,
And generous as brave!
Yet every virtue could not long,
O'er him as Marcus save.
Fly to the Truth - to you 'tis clear
What Cato wished to prove -
That virtuous valour suffering here
Shall find its Crown above.
Oh, Jersey, as he bled for thee
Thy sons will surely grateful be,
And o'er his silent grave,
While they his martial deeds proclaim,
Britannia shall enrol his name
Amongst her conquerors brave!