Pale set the sun--the shades of evening fell, The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell; And the same day beheld their warriors dead, Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled! Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire, Bright, blazing, dreadful--only to expire! Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might, Iberia’s planet shed meridian light! Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day, Castilian spirit bore the prize away-- Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane! And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame, Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame; Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow, Still rush impetuous to repel the foe; Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear! Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour’s crown, The living amaranths of bright renown! Be theirs th’ inspiring tribute of applause, Due to the champions of their country’s cause! Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves, The joy when conscience whispers and approves! When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high, To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty; When every hand is dauntless and prepared The sacred charter of mankind to guard; When Britain’s valiant sons their aid unite, Fervent and glowing still for freedom’s right, Bid ancient enmities for ever cease, And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand? Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless? Can victory fail to crown them with success? Look down, O Heaven! the righteous cause maintain, Defend the injured, and avenge the slain! Despot of France! destroyer of mankind! What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind! Oh! if at midnight round thy regal bed, When soothing visions fly thine aching head; When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm, And lull thy senses in his opiate balm; Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise, And murder’d victims bleed before thine eyes; Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, “Tyrant! the hour, th’ avenging hour is near!” It is, it is! thy star withdraws its ray-- Soon will its parting lustre fade away; Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light, And veil thy splendours in eternal night! Oh! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul With awful terrors and with dread control, Bids threat’ning forms, appalling, round thee stand, And summons all her visionary band; Calls up the parted shadows of the dead, And whispers, peace and happiness are fled; E’en at the time of silence and of rest, Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast; Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale?