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MOORE.

Crowned with perennial flowers,
By Wit and Genius wove,
He wanders through the bowers
Of Fancy and of Love.

BOMBARDMENT OF COPENHAGEN. A.D. 1801.

Or Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ;
By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold, determined hand;

And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew

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;
And the boldest held his breath-
For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

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
To our cheering sent us back :-

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,
"Ye are brothers! ye are men !
And we conquer but to save !—
So peace, instead of death, let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave their wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose;

As death withdrew his shades from the day:

While the sun looked smiling-bright
O'er a wide and woful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away!

Now joy, old England raise
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light-
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,

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,
Singing glory to the souls

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-
Our ships were British oak,

Hearts of oak our men.

Our Nelson marked them on the wave,
Three cheers our gallant seamen gave,
Nor thought of home or beauty;
Along the line this signal ran—
"England expects that every man
This day will do his duty!"

And now the cannons roar
Along the affrighted shore-
Our Nelson led the way.
His ship the Vict'ry named;
Long be that vict'ry famed!

For vict'ry crowned the day!
But dearly was that conquest bought,
Too well the gallant hero fought

For England, home, and beauty; He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran

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At last the fatal wound,
Which spread dismay around,
The hero's breast received:
"Heaven fights on our side,
The day's our own," he cried;
"Now long enough I've lived!
In honour's cause my life was past—
In honour's cause I fall at last,

For England, home, and beauty!"
Thus ending life as he began,
England confessed that every man
That day had done his duty.

O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppressed,
Britannia mourned her hero, now at rest ;
But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with
Whose leaves are watered by a nation's tears.

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,
And far by Ganges' banks at night is heard the tiger's roar;
But let the sound roll on! it hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone-there slumber
Britain's dead!

Loud rush the torrent-floods the western wilds among; And free, in green Columbia's woods, the hunter's bow is strung;

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