The fight was long;--and deep in blood Britain’s triumphant warriors stood: High o’er the wave, untorn, unstain’d, The ensigns of her glory reign’d: Around, the wreck’d and vanquish’d pride Of hostile navies strew’d the tide; Or scatter’d, as the tempest bore, Their ruins on the affrighted shore. The haughty hopes of France and Spain, Had dream’d of conquest’s laurel crown-- O! vision, arrogant and vain!-- NELSON has swept them from the main, And dash’d their airy trophies down: Their fancied wreaths his brow adorn, Won by his valour, in his triumph worn. But, hark! amidst the joyous shout, For Spain’s defeat, and France’s rout: But, hark! amidst the glad acclaim Of England’s honour, NELSON’S fame, What deep and sullen sounds arise? Are these, alas! victorious cries? Bode they a widow’d nation’s woe; The triumph vain, and NELSON low?-- In his full glory’s brightest blaze, On the high summit of his deeds, (While Victory’s saintly halo plays, With living fire,--immortal rays,-- Around his head,) the Hero bleeds; In pomp of death, to mortal eyes Never before revealed, the Hero dies. He dies! but while on Egypt’s strand The Ptolomean tower shall stand;-- Stain’d with the turbid streams of Nile, While seas shall beat Aboukir’s isle;-- While the white ocean breaks and roars On Trafalgar’s immortal shores;-- While high St. Vincent’s towery steep And, giant of the Atlantic deep, Dark Teneriffe, like beacons, guide The wanderers of the western wave; Sublime shall stand, amid the tide Of baffled Time,--his country’s pride-- The sacred memory of the brave; And NELSON’S emulated name Shine the proud sea-mark to the ports of Fame! III. ’Twas at the close of that dark morn On which our Hero, conquering, died, That every seaman’s heart was torn By strife of sorrow and of pride;-- Of pride, that one short day would show Deeds of eternal splendour done, Full twenty hostile ensigns low, And twenty glorious victories won-- Of grief, of deepest, tenderest grief, That He, on every sea and shore, Their brave, beloved, unconquer’d Chief, Should wave his victor-flag no more. Sad was the eve of that dire day: But direr, sadder was the night; When human rage had ceased the fray, And elements maintain’d the fight. All shaken in the conflict past The navies fear’d the tempest loud-- The gale, that shook the groaning mast-- The wave, that climb’d the tatter’d shroud. By passing gleams of sullen light, The worn and weary seamen view’d The hard-earn’d prizes of the fight Sink, found’ring, in the midnight flood: