If e'er again return those awful days Whose clouds were crimsoned with the beacon's blaze, Whose grass was trampled by the soldier's heel, Whose tides were reddened round the rushing keel, God grant some lyre may wake a nobler strain To rend the silence of our tented plain! When Gallia's flag its triple fold displays, Her marshalled legions peal the Marseillaise; When round the German close the war-clouds dim, Far through their shadows floats his battle-hymn; When, crowned with joy, the camps' of England ring, A thousand voices shout, "God save the King!" When victory follows with our eagle's glance, Our nation's anthem pipes a country dance! Some prouder Muse, when comes the hour at last, May shake our hillsides with her bugle-blast; Not ours the task; but since the lyric dress Relieves the statelier with its sprightliness, Hear an old song, which some, perchance, have seen In stale gazette or cobwebbed magazine. There was an hour when patriots dared profane The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain; And one, who listened to the tale of shame, Whose heart still answered to that sacred name, Whose eye still followed o'er his country's tides Thy glorious flag, our brave Old Ironsides From yon lone attic, on a smiling morn, Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn. III. When florid Peace resumed her golden reign, And arts revived, and valleys bloomed again, While War still panted on his-broken blade, Once more the Muse her heavenly wing essayed. Rude was the song: some ballad, stern and wild, Lulled the light slumbers of the soldier's child; Or young romancer, with his threatening glance And fearful fables of his bloodless lance, Scared the soft fancy of the clinging girls, Whose snowy fingers smoothed his raven curls. But when long years the stately form had bent, And faithless Memory her illusions lent, So vast the outlines of Tradition grew That History wondered at the shapes she drew, And veiled at length their too ambitious hues Beneath the pinions of the Epic Muse.