And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

IV.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,
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 shattered sail,

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

V.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave: "Ye are brothers! ye are men!

66

So

And we conquer but to save;
peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our king."

VI.

Then Denmark blessed 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 looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

VII.

Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst 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 !

VIII.

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 heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO JOHN PHILIP KEMBle.

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu!

Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to Fancy's view.
Like fields refreshed with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,

As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble! fare thee well!

His was the spell o'er hearts

Which only acting lends,-
The youngest of the sister arts,
Where all their beauty blends:

For ill can poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's perfect triumphs come
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.

What soul was not resigned entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor,—
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast
The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task-too high,

Ye conscious bosoms here!

In words to paint your memory

Of Kemble and of Lear;

But who forgets that white, discrowned head,

Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt more touching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt?

Had Shakespeare's self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,
And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons's auxiliar power

And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side
The tragic paragons had
grown-
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne;

And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause,

Save for the gallantry of man
In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste:-
Taste like the silent dial's power,
That, when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,

His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect,

The scholar could presage.

:

These were his traits of worth :-
And must we lose them now!

And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly pleasing brow!

Alas, the moral brings a tear !

'Tis all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here, Ourselves as fleetly go!

Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review:-
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu !