I too have known what ’tis to part With the first inmate of my heart-- To feel the bonds of nature riven-- To witness o’er the glowing dawn, The spring of youth, the fire of heaven, The grave’s deep shadows drawn! He sleeps not on the gory plain The slumber of the brave-- Dear Victim of disease, and pain, Where high Madeira’s summits reign Far o’er the Atlantic wave, He sought eluding health--in vain-- Health never lit his eye again, He fills a foreign grave! Oh, had he lived, his hand to-day Had woven for the victor’s brow, Such garland of immortal bay, Such chaplet as the enraptured lay Of genius may bestow! Or,--since ’twas Heaven’s severer doom To snatch him to an earlier tomb-- Would, Wellesley, would that he had died Beneath thine eye and at thy side! It would have lighten’d sorrow’s load, Had thy applause on him bestow’d The fame he loved in thee; And rear’d his honoured tomb beside Those of the gallant hearts who died, Their kinsmen’s, friends’, and country’s pride, In Talavera’s victory! ODE SUNG AT THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE GENTLEMEN FROM INDIA TO FIELD-MARSHAL THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, K.G. MONDAY, JULY 11, 1814. I. Victor of Assaye’s orient plain;-- Victor of all the fields of Spain;-- Victor of France’s despot reign;-- Thy task of glory done! Welcome!--from dangers greatly dared; From triumphs, with the vanquish’d shared; From nations saved, and nations spared; Unconquer’d Wellington!-- II. _Unconquer’d!_ yet thy honours claim A nobler, than a Conqueror’s, name;-- At the red wreaths of guilty fame Thy generous soul had blush’d: The blood--the tears the world has shed-- The throngs of mourners--piles of dead-- The grief--the guilt--are on _his_ head, The Tyrant thou hast crush’d. III. Thine was the sword which Justice draws; Thine was the pure and generous cause, Of holy rites and human laws The impious thrall to burst; And _thou_ wast destin’d for thy part! The noblest mind, the firmest heart, Artless--but in the warrior’s art-- And in that art, the first. IV. And WE, who in the eastern skies Beheld thy Sun of glory rise, Still follow, with exulting eyes, His proud Meridian height. Late,--on thy grateful country’s breast, Late, may that Sun descend to rest, Beaming through all the glowing West The memory of his light. WAR SONG. 1803. Wave, wave, the banners of the fight; Be every breast in armour dight, And every soul on fire! To trembling Europe’s frighted eyes, Red let the sun of battle rise; And bloody be the morning skies That bring the day of ire!