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The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief.”



Ye Mariners of England !
That guard our native seas ;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!-
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave :
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep ;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy ten pests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn ;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow ;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.



At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the

bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree; And travell’d by few is the grass-cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew, From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace ; For the night-weed and thorn overshadowed the

place Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all

That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall ;

But patience shall never depart ! Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and

bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined, With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, Abandon my soul like a dream of the night,

And leave but a desert behind.

Be hush'd, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns

When the faint and the feeble deplore ;
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore !
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of

disdain, May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again ;

To bear is to conquer our fate.




To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings ;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory re-appears.
But oh! my Country's wintry state,
What second spring shall renovate ?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise ;
The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel ?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where Glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine,
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb !

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart !
Say to your sons,-Lo! here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave;
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given ;
Where'er his country's foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll’d, blazed, destroy'd,--and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia (a), Trafalgar ;
Who, born to guide such high emprize,
For Britain's weal was early wise ;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself ;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the free-

man's laws.

Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand ;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright ;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne:
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill !

(a) Copenhagen.

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