And oft, as drowning screams they heard, And oft, as sank the ships around, Some British vessel lost they fear’d, And mourn’d some British brethren drown’d. And oft they cried, (as memory roll’d On Him, so late their hope and guide But now a bloody corse and cold,) ‘Was it for _this_, that NELSON died?’ For three short days, and three long nights, They wrestled with the tempest’s force; And sank the trophies of their fights,-- And thought upon that bloody corse!-- But when the fairer morn arose Bright o’er the yet-tumultuous main, They saw no wreck but that of foes, No ruin but of France and Spain: And, victors now of winds and seas, Beheld the British vessels brave Breasting the ocean at their ease, Like sea-birds on their native wave: And now they cried, (because they found Old England’s fleet in all its pride, While Spain’s and France’s hopes were drown’d,) ‘It _was_ for _this_ that NELSON died!’ He died, with many an hundred bold And honest hearts as ever beat!-- But where’s the British heart so cold That would not die in such a feat? Yes! by their memories! by all The honours which their tomb surround! Theirs was the noblest, happiest fall Which ever mortal courage crown’d. Then bear them to their glorious grave With no weak tears, no woman’s sighs; Theirs was the death-bed of the brave, And manly be their obsequies! Haul not your colours from on high, Nor down the flags of victory lower:-- Give every streamer to the sky, Let all your conq’ring cannon roar; That every kindling soul may learn How to resign its patriot breath; And from a grateful country, earn The triumphs of a trophied death. IV. Rear high the monumental stone!-- To other days, as to his own, Belong the Hero’s deathless deeds, Who greatly lives, who bravely bleeds. Not to a petty point of time Or space, but wide to every clime And age, his glorious fall bequeaths Valour’s sword, and victory’s wreaths. The rude but pious care of yore Heap’d o’er the brave the mounded shore; And still that mounded shore can tell Where Hector and Pelides fell. There, over glory’s earthly bed, When many a wasting age had fled, The world’s Great Victor pour’d his pray’rs For fame, and monuments like theirs. Happy the brave! whose sacred tomb _Itself_ averts the oblivious doom, Bears on its breast unfading bays, And gives eternity of praise! High, then, the monumental pile Erect, for NELSON of the NILE! Of TRAFALGAR, and VINCENT’S heights, For NELSON of the hundred fights--