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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,
instead of death let us bring: 'But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews at England's feet,
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
Now joy, old England, raise!
While the wine cup shines in light;
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
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,
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
Man hath a weary pilgrimage
As thro' the world he wends;
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
And cares where love has no concern,
From hard controul and tyrant rules
The child's sad thoughts will roam,
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
Then is not Youth as Fancy tells
And he remembers with a sigh
Maturer manhood now arrives
And other thoughts come on,
But with the baseless hopes of youth
Cold calculating cares succeed,
The dull realities of truth;
So reaches he the latter stage
With feeble step and slow;
That all is vanity below.
Yet Age remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more.
COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.
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