Again! again! again! And the havock did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back ;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:---
Then ceas'd-and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.-
Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd 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
Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her 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 look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of fun'ral 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 heav'n o'er their grave!
While the billow mournfully rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
* Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his dispatches.
AT the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears, There's a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
"Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; . Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
Man hath a weary pilgrimage
As thro' the world he wends; On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes
Torn from his mother's arms; What then shall soothe his earliest woes, When novelty hath lost its charms?
Condemn'd to suffer thro' the day Restraints which no rewards repay,
And cares where love has no concern,
Hope lightens as she count the hours That hasten his return. From hard controul and tyrant rules The unfeeling discipline of schools,
The child's sad thoughts will roam,
And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home.
Youth comes; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind;
Where shall the tired and harrass'd heart Its consolation find?
Then is not Youth as Fancy tells Life's summer prime of joy? Ah no! for hopes too long delayed. And feelings blasted or betrayed, The fabled bliss destroy, And he remembers with a sigh The careless days of Infancy.
Maturer manhood now arrives
And other thoughts come on, But with the baseless hopes of youth Its generous warmth is gone; Cold calculating cares succeed, The timid thought the weary deed,
The dull realities of truth; Back on the past he turns his eye Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of youth.
So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage
With feeble step and slow; New ills that latter stage await And old experience learns too late That all is vanity below.
Life's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er, Yet Age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more.
COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and shame? I know not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!
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