Read it through once

“No tawdry, ’scutcheons hang around thy tomb, No hired mourners wave the sabled plume, No statues rise to mark the sacred spot, No pealing organ swells the solemn note. A hurried grave thy soldiers’ hands prepare; Thy soldiers’ hands the mournful burthen bear; The vaulted sky to earth’s extremest verge Thy canopy; the cannon’s roar thy dirge! Affections sorrows dew thy lowly bier, And weeping Valour sanctifies the tear.”