MOORE. Crowned with perennial flowers, BOMBARDMENT OF COPENHAGEN. A.D. 1801. Or Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; In a bold, determined hand; And the prince of all the land Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; 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; Light the gloom! Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave, With the crews at England's feet, Then Denmark blessed our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day: While the sun looked smiling-bright Where the fires of funeral light Died away! Now joy, old England raise While the wine-cup shines in light- By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride With the gallant good Riou! Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave ! BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. A.D. 1805, 'TWAS in Trafalgar's bay, We saw the Frenchmen lay, Each heart was bounding then ; We scorned the foreign yoke- Hearts of oak our men. Our Nelson marked them on the wave, And now the cannons roar For vict'ry crowned the day! For England, home, and beauty; He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran At last the fatal wound, For England, home, and beauty!" O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppressed, years, THE BRITISH DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile is reared o'er glory's bed. Go, stranger, track the deep; free, free the white sail spread ! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, where rest not Britain's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, by the pyramid o'er-swayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, and the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun from heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!—there slumber Britain's dead! The hurricane hath might along the Indian shore, Loud rush the torrent-floods the western wilds among; And free, in green Columbia's woods, the hunter's bow is strung; |