"The world, I think, can witness bear My name was never stain'd by fear: At least the british fleet can say I never shunn'd the face of clay: But Fulton's black, infernal art-- Has stamp'd me--coward--to the heart! "When Nelson met the spanish fleet, And every pulse for conquest beat, At Nelson's side I had my stand; When Nelson fell I took command: Not Etna's self, with all her flames-- Vesuvius--such description claims; Not Hecla, in her wildest rage, Does with such fires the heavens engage, As on that day, in mourning clad, Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.[A] [A] The Santa Trinidada, the spanish admiral's ship, of 112 guns, from the mizen top of which admiral Nelson was mortally wounded by a musket shot. Another account says, he received his death wound from the Redoubtable, french 74.--_Freneau's note._ "And yet, amidst that awful scene, I stood unhurt, composed, serene; Though balls, by thousands, whistled round, Not one had leave to kill or wound-- But here! in this torpedo war I perish, with my glittering star, The laurels that adorn my brow-- My laurels are surrender'd now. O Fanny! these envenom'd states Have doom'd our deaths among the rats, In one explosion, to the sky Our chaplain, rats, and sailors fly. "To deal in such inhuman war Is more than English blood can bear; It brings again the gothic age, Renews that period on the stage, When men against the gods rebell'd, And Ossa was on Pelion piled: The trojan war, when Diomede In battle, made fair Venus bleed; Or, when the giants of renown Attempted Jove's imperial crown:-- From such a foe, before we meet, The safest way, is to retreat, To leave this curst unlucky shore And come to trouble them no more. "But, should it be my fate to-night Not to behold to-morrow's light But mingle with the vulgar dead, With all my terrors on my head-- Should such a fate be mine, I say, Dear Fanny, you must lead the way;-- You are the saint that will atone For what amiss I might have done: If such as you will intercede The chaplain may a furlow plead, While you and I in raptures go Where stormy winds no longer blow, Where guns are not, to shed our blood, Or if there be, are made of wood; Where all is love, and no one hates; No falling kings or rising states; No colors that we must defend, If sick, or dead, or near our end; Where yankees are admitted not To hatch their damn'd torpedo plot: Where you will have no beds to make, Nor I be doom'd to lie awake."