As they drifted on their path, But the might of England flushed And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of Oak !" our captains cried, when each gun, From its adamantine lips, Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun! Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane Their shots along the deep slowly boom;- Then ceased-and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom! Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave, So peace, instead of death, let us bring: With the crews, at England's feet, To our king." Then Denmark blessed our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day; O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away! Now joy, old England, raise, While the wine-cup shines in light! Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! CAMPBELL. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring No wailing ghost shall dare appear, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft, at evening hours, To deck the ground where thou art laid! When howling winds and beating rain Each lonely scene shall thee restore, COLLINS. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly, at dead of night, No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. WOLFE. THE ROSE. THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, To weep for the buds it had left with regret I hastily seized it, unfit as it was And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart |