No more you feel contagion's mortal breath That taints the realms with misery severe, No more behold pale famine, scattering death, With cruel ravage desolate the year. 13 The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain, Unheard, shall form the long embattled line: Unheard, the deep foundations of the main Shall tremble, when the hostile squadrons join. 14 Since grief, fatigue, and hazards still molest The wandering vassals of the faithless deep; Oh! happier now escaped to endless rest, Than we who still survive to wake and weep. 15 What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear, Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell; Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier, Who sadly listen to the passing bell; 16 The tutor'd sigh, the vain parade of woe, No real anguish to the soul impart; And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow Belies the latent feelings of the heart. 17 What though no sculptured pile your name displays, Like those who perish in their country's cause? What though no epic Muse in living lays Records your dreadful daring with applause?-- 18 Full oft the nattering marble bids renown With blazon'd trophies deck the spotted name; And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown The slaves of vice with never-dying fame. 19 Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere; And soft compassion at your tragic tale In silent tribute pay her kindred tear. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE DEMAGOGUE. [1]