SONGS OF T R A F A L G A R.

Though I do love my country’s weal As well as any soul that breathes; Though more than filial pride I feel To see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths; Yet from my heart do I deplore Her recent triumphs on the main— Those laurels dripping red with gore— That victory bought with Nelson slain. Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss, That England’s hope and heart have known Since first, in fight, her blood-red cross O’er the great deep triumphant shone.— And she should wail that conquest dear, And she that heavy loss should mourn; Hallow with sighs her Hero’s bier, And gem with tears her Hero’s urn. Shame on the wild and callous rout That lights for joy its countless fires, That hails the day with madd’ning shout, While He, who won the day, expires! It was, indeed, a glorious day,— And every homage of the heart Were just, that rescued realms can pay, Had Nelson lived to share his part. Had Nelson lived to hear our praise, I too had hymn’d the victor’s song; I too had lit the joyous blaze, And wildly join’d the exulting throng. But He is blind to pageant gay, And he is deaf to joyous strain; And I will raise no pleasant lay, And swell no pomp for Nelson slain. But I will commune with my mind, To celebrate its darling Chief What worthiest tribute it may find Of soften’d pride, of temper’d grief. Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raise The storied vase, the column tall, Through every future age to praise His life, and consecrate his fall: Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongue Were gifted with immortal verse!) To strew, with many a sorrowing song, Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse.

The fight was long;—and deep in blood Britain’s triumphant warriors stood: High o’er the wave, untorn, unstain’d, The ensigns of her glory reign’d: Around, the wreck’d and vanquish’d pride Of hostile navies strew’d the tide; Or scatter’d, as the tempest bore, Their ruins on the affrighted shore. The haughty hopes of France and Spain, Had dream’d of conquest’s laurel crown— O! vision, arrogant and vain!— Nelson has swept them from the main, And dash’d their airy trophies down: Their fancied wreaths his brow adorn, Won by his valour, in his triumph worn. But, hark! amidst the joyous shout, For Spain’s defeat, and France’s rout: But, hark! amidst the glad acclaim Of England’s honour, Nelson’s fame, What deep and sullen sounds arise? Are these, alas! victorious cries? Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe; The triumph vain, and Nelson low?— In his full glory’s brightest blaze, On the high summit of his deeds, (While Victory’s saintly halo plays, With living fire,—immortal rays,— Around his head,) the Hero bleeds; In pomp of death, to mortal eyes Never before revealed, the Hero dies. He dies! but while on Egypt’s strand The Ptolomean tower shall stand;— Stain’d with the turbid streams of Nile, While seas shall beat Aboukir’s isle;— While the white ocean breaks and roars On Trafalgar’s immortal shores;— While high St. Vincent’s towery steep And, giant of the Atlantic deep, Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guide The wanderers of the western wave; Sublime shall stand, amid the tide Of baffled Time,—his country’s pride— The sacred memory of the brave; And Nelson’s emulated name Shine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame!