Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale LOCHIEL. -Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Or Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone, By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine, It was ten of April morn by the chime: There was silence deep as death; But the might of England flush'd And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceased-and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save: So peace instead of death let us bring: Then Denmark blest our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day. O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise! While the wine-cup shines in light; Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of Heav'n o'er their grave! *Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches. While the billow mournful rolls, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. A NAVAL ODE. YE mariners of England! That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Britannia needs no bulwark, Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow; HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, |