Here, foremost in the dangerous paths of fame,
Young Williams fought for England’s fair renown;
His mind each Muse, each Grace adorned his frame,
Nor envy dared to view him with a frown.
At Aix, his voluntary sword he drew,
There first in blood his infant honour sealed;
From fortune, pleasure, science, love, he flew,
And scorned repose when Britain took the field.
With eyes of flame, and cool undaunted breast
Victor he stood on Belleisle’s rocky steeps—
Ah, gallant youth; this marble tells the rest,
Where melancholy friendship bends, and weeps.