Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; 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 Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feebler 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 goom. 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! _Thomas Campbell._ XLVII MEN OF ENGLAND Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood:-- By the foes you’ve fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds you’ve done, Trophies captured--breaches mounted, Navies conquered--kingdoms won! Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same. What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avails in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? Pageants!--Let the world revere us For our people’s rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom’s holy cause. Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, Sidney’s matchless shade is yours,-- Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts! We’re the sons of sires that baffled Crown’d and mitred tyranny;-- They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights--so will we! _Thomas Campbell._ CUNNINGHAM XLVIII THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG