David Given Schwarm

       And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
       Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
       And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
       Pavilioning the dust of him who plann’d
       This refuge for his memory, doth stand
       Like flame transform’d to marble; and beneath,
       A field is spread, on which a newer band
       Have pitch’d in Heaven’s smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish’d breath.