Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, 30 Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom- As they strike the shatter'd sail, 35 Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! 40 And we conquer but to save; So peace instead of death let us bring. With the crews, at England's feet, 45 To our King." 30 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years "What though beneath thee man put forth And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will? 35 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 40 Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Nor with thy rising beams recall 1 45 Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 50 Of pain anew to writhe; Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 55 My lips that speak thy dirge of deathTheir rounded gasp and gurgling breath 60 70 To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, Receive my parting ghost! This spirit shall return to Him 65 No! it shall live again, and shine 1 See 1 Corinthians, 15:55. 15 And the buoys and the beacons extinguish'd their light, As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight, High bounding from billow to billow; each form Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm; With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, 20 Fast they plough'd by the lee-shore of Heligoland, Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er cross'd; Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptoss'd; And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood To the challenging watchman, that curdled his blood: 10 They parted-but not till the sight might discern Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds- 10 Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 15 And man never trod before. past. Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 15 Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, From IRISH MELODIES 1807 28 |