Whose impious voice, from his dark cave Wakes the destroyer of the brave? What hand prepares their tomb? ’Tis He, Ambition’s perjured sprite, ’Tis He, that waves the flags of fight, ’Tis He, in clouds of deadliest night, Who weaves the warrior’s doom. Weep, weep, ye gentle dames of France, Ye, whose devoted sons advance To Britain’s fatal shore: O! kiss their lips before ye part, O! press them to your bursting heart-- Save in a dream’s convulsive start-- Ye ne’er shall clasp them more. Arouse, arouse, ye British dames, With words of fire, the patriot flames That burn for glorious deed. For him that lives, the raptur’d eye Of love shall dance! for those who die, Their ladies’ tears, their country’s sigh, Shall be the sacred meed! SONGS OF TRAFALGAR. 1805. I. Though I do love my country’s weal As well as any soul that breathes; Though more than filial pride I feel To see her crown’d, with conqu’ring wreaths; Yet from my heart do I deplore Her recent triumphs on the main-- Those laurels dripping red with gore-- That victory bought with NELSON slain. Oh! dearest conquest, heaviest loss, That England’s hope and heart have known Since first, in fight, her blood-red cross O’er the great deep triumphant shone.-- And she should wail that conquest dear, And she that heavy loss should mourn; Hallow with sighs her Hero’s bier, And gem with tears her Hero’s urn. Shame on the wild and callous rout That lights for joy its countless fires, That hails the day with madd’ning shout, While HE, who won the day, expires! It was, indeed, a glorious day,-- And every homage of the heart Were just, that rescued realms can pay, Had NELSON lived to share his part. Had NELSON lived to hear our praise, I too had hymn’d the victor’s song; I too had lit the joyous blaze, And wildly join’d the exulting throng. But HE is blind to pageant gay, And he is deaf to joyous strain; And I will raise no pleasant lay, And swell no pomp for NELSON slain. But I will commune with my mind, To celebrate its darling Chief What worthiest tribute it may find Of soften’d pride, of temper’d grief. Ye good and great, ’tis yours to raise The storied vase, the column tall, Through every future age to praise His life, and consecrate his fall: Mine it will be, (oh! would my tongue Were gifted with immortal verse!) To strew, with many a sorrowing song, Parnassian cypress o’er his hearse. II.