MOORE. Crowned with perennial flowers, BOMBARDMENT OF COPENHAGEN. A.D. 1801. Or Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; In a bold, determined hand; Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; On the lofty British line : It was ten of April morn by the chime: There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath- But the might of England flushed And her van the fleeter rushed 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, Like the hurricane eclipse Their shots along the deep slowly boom ;— Then ceased-and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail ; Or, in conflagration pale Light the gloom! Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave, So peace, instead of death, let us bring: With the crews at England's feet, To our king." Then Denmark blessed our chief, From her people wildly rose; As death withdrew his shades from the day: While the sun looked smiling-bright Where the fires of funeral light Died away! 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 heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave! A.D. 1805. BATTLE OF TRAFALGAR. 'TWAS in Trafalgar's bay, We saw the Frenchmen lay, Each heart was bounding then; We scorned the foreign yoke- Hearts of oak our men. Our Nelson marked them on the wave, And now the cannons roar For vict'ry crowned the day! For England, home, and beauty; He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran'England expects that every man This day will do his duty!" At last the fatal wound, For England, home, and beauty!" Thus ending life as he began, England confessed that every man That day had done his duty. O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppressed, But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years, THE BRITISH DEAD. SON of the ocean isle! where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile is reared o'er glory's bed. Go, stranger, track the deep; free, free the white sail spread ! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, where rest not Britain's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, by the pyramid o'er-swayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, and the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun from heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-there slumber Britain's dead! The hurricane hath might along the Indian shore, Loud rush the torrent-floods the western wilds among; And free, in green Columbia's woods, the hunter's bow is strung; |