He call'd aloud :—“Say, father! say He knew not that the chieftain lay "Speak, father!" once again he cried, And look'd from that lone post of death And shouted but once more aloud, "My father, must I stay? While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way; They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, And streamed above the gallant child, There came a burst of thunder sound .! But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart! HEMANS. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclos'd his breast, Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, The foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, gone, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's But half of our heavy task was done Slowly and sadly we laid him down, We carved not a line and we raised not a stone, WOLFE. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, 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; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. But the might of England flush'd And her van the fleeter rush'd 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, Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Out spoke the Victor then, Then Denmark blest our chief, As death withdrew his shade from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, When the fires of fun'ral 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 Heav'n o'er the grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, CAMPBELL. BOADICEA. AN ODE. When the British warrior queen, Sage beneath the spreading oak "Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. "Rome shall perish-write that word Deep in ruin as in guilt. 1 Captain Riou, justly called the gallant and good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his dispatches. |