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O'er England's self his new dominion plann'd,-
While the red bolt yet flamed in NELSON's hand!

That hand, which erst, by Nile's affrighted tide,
Smote with dread fire the godless Warrior's pride,
And strew'd his blazing wrecks on Egypt's shore-
Exhausted Europe, by the distant roar

Roused from her trance, her shatter'd force combined,
And half-redeem'd the freedom of mankind.
But ah! too soon the' imperfect efforts cease,
And fainting nations sleep in deathlike peace.
-Not long :-Once more to vex the troubled times,
Flush'd with the triumph of successful crimes,
With Rapine's ravening eagles wide unfurl'd,
Behold! the fell Disturber of the World,
Scourge of the weak, and terror of the strong,
With unresisted legions pours along,
O'er trembling States to stretch his iron reign,
And wrest by force what fraud had fail'd to gain !

Earth all his own-(so feigns his fabling pride! Thrones of the North! be yet that boast belied!) Earth all his own-in hope, he dares profane With impious grasp, the sceptre of the main :But ENGLAND heard the vaunt, and NELSON made it vain.

NELSON Once more, (though, taught by him, we own The thanks, the triumph, due to Heaven alone,) Once more the chosen instrument of good, Fix'd on the waves, and stablish'd on the flood, His Country's rights :-but seal'd them with his blood, O price, his conquering Country grieved to pay! O dear-bought glories of Trafalgar's day!

Lamented Hero! when to Britain's shore
Exulting fame those awful tidings bore,
Joy's bursting shout in whelming grief was drown'd,
And Victory's self unwilling audience found;
every brow the cloud of sadness hung,
The sounds of triumph died on every tongue!

Not joy thus doubtful, sadness thus sincere,
Shall grace, erewhile, the tyrant-conqueror's bier :
Whether with undiscriminating sweep
The scythe of war, amid the mangled heap,

Shall lay him low;-or lone, corroding care,
Without one heart to pity or to share,
And cheerless toils of solitary sway,

Shall waste his withering frame with slow decay;
Come when it will, from heav'n's all-righteous hand,
To save, or to avenge, each injured land,
Nations shall kneel to bless the welcome doom;
And France, unfetter'd, trample on his tomb.

But thee, lov'd chief! what genuine griefs bemoan! Fleets, cities, camps; the cottage, and the throne! Round thy throng'd hearse those mingling sorrows flow, And seek faint solace in a pomp of woe!


Yet not the vows thy weeping country pays, Not that high meed, thy mourning sovereign's praise; Not, that the great, the beauteous, and the brave Bend, in mute reverence, o'er thy closing grave; That with such grief as bathes a kindred bier, Collective nations mourn a death so dear ;Not these alone shall soothe thy sainted shade, And consecrate the spot where thou art laid! Not these alone. But, bursting through the gloom, With radiant glory from thy trophied tomb, The sacred splendour of thy deathless name Shall grace and guard thy country's martial fame. Far-seen, shall blaze the unextinguish'd ray, A mighty beacon, lighting glory's way; With living lustre this proud land adorn, And shine, and save, through ages yet unborn!

By that pure fire, before that hallow'd tomb, Heroes and chiefs in valour's opening bloom, Frequent, in solemn pilgrimage, shall stand, And vow to prize, like thee, their native land; With pious ardour thy bright course pursue, And bid thy blended virtues live anew :Thy skill to plan; thy enterprise to dare; Thy might to strike; thy clemency to spare; That zeal, in which no thought of self had part, But thy loved country fill'd up all thy heart; That conscious worth, from pride, from meanness free, And manners mild as guileless infancy;

The scorn of worldly wealth; the thirst of fame

Unquenchable; the blush of generous shame;
And bounty's genial flow, and friendship's holy flame!

And sure, if e'er the spirits of the blest Still fondly cherish, in the realms of rest, Their human passions; thine are still the same; Thy zeal for England's safety and her fame! And when in after-times, with vain desire, Her baffled foes in restless hate conspire From her fair brow the' unfading wreath to tear, Thy hand, and hands like thine,-have planted there; Thou, sacred shade! in battle hovering near, Shalt win coy victory from her golden sphere, To float aloft, where England's ensign flies, With angel wings, and palms from paradise!

Cease then the funeral strain!-Lament no more,
Whom, ripe for fate, 't were impious to deplore!
He died the death of glory.-Cease to mourn,
And cries of grief to songs of triumph turn!

-Ah, no!-Awhile, ere reason's voice o'erpow'rs
The fond regret that weeps a loss like ours.
Though thine own gallant spirit, wise as brave,
Begg'd of kind heav'n the' illustrious end it gave;
Though rival chiefs, while fondly they recall
Thy storied combats, and thy glorious fall,
Count with just pride thy laurels as they bloom,
But envy less thy triumphs than thy tomb ;--
Yet, yet, awhile the natural tear may flow,
Nor cold reflection chide the chastening woe;
Awhile uncheck'd the tide of sorrow swell:-
Thou bravest, gentlest spirit! fare thee well!-


When Freedom, from her mountain height,
Unfurl'd her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And stripp'd its pure celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;

Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land!

Majestic monarch of the cloud!

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumping loud, And see the lightning-lances driven,

When stride the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven! Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of warThe harbingers of victory.

Flag of the brave! Thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal trumpet-tone
And the long line comes gleaming on,
(Ere yet the life-blood warm and wet
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,)
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy meteor glories burn,
And, as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance !
And when the cannon-mouthings loud,
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud;
And gory sabres rise and fall,
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall!
There shall thy victor-glances glow,

And cowering foes shall sink beneath
Each gallant arm, that strikes below

That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave
When Death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,

The dying wand'rer of the sea
Shall look, at once, to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendours fly,
In triumph, o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free hearts' only home,

By angel hands to valour given:
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome
And all thy hues were born in heaven!
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe that falls before it ?
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us.

From the "PLEASURES OF HOPE."-Campbeli.

Ye fond adorers of departed fame,

Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name!
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!
Wrapt in historic ardour, who adore
Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore,
Where Valour tun'd, amid her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song ;
Or, wand'ring thence, behold the later charms
Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms!
See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell,
And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell!
Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore,
Hath Valour left the world-to live no more ?
No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die,
And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye?
Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls
Encounter fate, and triumph as he falls?
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm,
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm?
Yes! in that generous cause for ever strong,
The patriot's virtue, and the poet's song,
Still, as the tide of ages rolls away,
Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay!
Yes! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust,

That slumber yet in uncreated dust,
Ordain'd to fire th' adoring sons of earth
With every charm of wisdom and of worth;

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