Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

30 Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail,

35 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! 40 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

45 To our King."

30

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

"What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will?

35 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day;
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang

40

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again:

1

45 Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack

50

Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

55 My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded gasp and gurgling breath

60

70

To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of Darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!

65 No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory,-
And took the sting from Death!1
'Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
75 Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

1 See 1 Corinthians, 15:55.

15 And the buoys and the beacons extinguish'd their light,

As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight,

High bounding from billow to billow; each form

Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm;

With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand,

20 Fast they plough'd by the lee-shore of Heligoland,

Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er cross'd;

Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptoss'd;

And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood

To the challenging watchman, that curdled his blood:

10

They parted-but not till the sight might

discern

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's

15 And man never trod before.

past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 15 Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's
past.

From IRISH MELODIES
1808-34

1807 28